


Venus Kept Her Promises

by waroftheposes



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I didn't forget Samuel this time, M/M, Slow Burn, Soulmates, background dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24345097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waroftheposes/pseuds/waroftheposes
Summary: Very rarely, children are born with the name of their soulmate written on their wrists. Ander's wrist has a name written in Arabic.--a medieval soulmates au, featuring: long monologues on the benefits of baths; interfaith soulmate politics; and Ander, 19, who never fucking learned how to read (Arabic).
Relationships: Ander Muñoz/Omar Shana
Comments: 26
Kudos: 214





	Venus Kept Her Promises

**Author's Note:**

> _Exsolvit promissa Venus._  
>  \--  
> Poem translations provided in the end notes. All translations are done by me.

**_The Iberian Peninsula, c.a. 10th century A.D; c.a. 4th century A.H._ **

_In the reign of King Sancho II of Pamplona and al-Hakam II, Caliph of Córdoba_

_\--_

[ **_Map_ ** ](https://flic.kr/p/2j4XChj)

\--

**Section I: _Pamplona to Córdoba_**

\--

The sky is overcast and the air chilly when Ander arrives in Pamplona.

He gets there a few days after Guzman has returned from King Sancho’s latest campaign. Guzman had written Ander a letter, in which he had recounted Navarre’s devastating losses against the Andalusian general, al-Mansour. After his description of the battle, Guzman had briefly detailed his father’s influence on the king’s decision to surrender peacefully. Although the letter had been very detailed about Navarre’s military campaigns, Guzman had expressed that his main purpose for writing was his desire to see Ander.

The letter had come at a good time.

Ander had had a falling out with his father. Ander’s father had gotten it into his head that it would be a good idea for Ander to become a knight. Although knighthood was not yet popular in Navarre, Ander’s father, who had often mourned about his son’s idleness, had wanted him to give it a shot. He’d thought it a good opportunity for his heir to find some occupation before succeeding him. Ander, on the other hand, knew little to nothing about knighthood, and although he was good with a sword and strong in a fight, he had little interest in becoming a knight. Joining an order created for the purpose of protecting pilgrims or killing Moors and Muslims had little appeal to Ander.

In fact, Ander has never had, and will probably never have a desire to fight the Moors, a detail that troubles his father to no end.

Ander, unhappy at home and unwilling to fight with his father ad nauseum, had packed the very next day and set out toward Pamplona _._ He made it there in a little over two days, riding from his family’s estate on the slopes of the Pyrenees.

Although he had been sad to say goodbye to his mother and the mountains, seeing Guzman for the first time in many months cheers Ander up. He hugs Guzman tightly when they first see each other.

“Thanks for coming,” Guzman says, pulling back but holding on to Ander’s shoulders. “I wasn’t sure you would, since we keep losing battles down here.”

They make their way through the dimly lit halls to the room Guzman has prepared for Ander. Meanwhile Guzman fills Ander in on the details of Navarre’s latest loss to the Moors. 

Ander learns that after being beaten in many battles--“al-Mansour is an exceptional military man,” Guzman interjects--King Sancho has finally accepted defeat and made Navarre a sort of vassal state of Córdoba.

“I thought this would make my dad unhappy, seeing how out of sorts the whole ordeal made the king,” Guzman says. “But it’s not like this new vassalage toward Córdoba will affect him. He’s not giving up anything--not his land or his title or his money. It’s the king who has to pay the Moors. We’ll be just fine as long as the king doesn’t stir up trouble. So at least for a couple of years.” He smiles at Ander knowingly after he finishes his last sentence. They both know that the king will attempt another attack on the Moors soon.

Ander nods. He has very little interest in politics--his family line is that of minor nobility, and they live in the southern slopes of the Pyrenees, where the Moors have rarely ventured since their defeat by Charlemagne. But Guzman’s talk of the south is very interesting to Ander.

Unwittingly, Ander’s fingers begin playing with the leather band on his left wrist.

Guzman’s gaze drops to the band briefly. “Sancho has sent a son and a daughter to Córdoba, as a guarantee that he will not rise up against al-Mansour again. Now that the fighting is over, we are free to trade with our neighbors once more.”

“Our neighbors?”

“The Moors to the south. My father is especially eager to re-establish a relationship with them and their eastern trade. He’s kept up a correspondence with a man named Abu-Yusef, despite the king’s efforts to stamp out diplomacy here. He wants me to travel south and meet with this man, see what he’s like for myself.” Guzman closes his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. “And I think he wants me to stop dwelling on what happened to Marina.”

Ander smiles sympathetically. Guzman’s sister, Marina, had vanished under mysterious circumstances some years ago. Her family first thought her abducted, then murdered, but no matter how much they prayed and searched, no trace of Marina had been found.

Guzman had not taken this well.

In fact, he had, as one would say, gone off the deep end. Ander had been with him at the time, and it was truly a testament to their love for each other as friends that they were still on speaking terms.

“I think he thinks that the change of scenery will be good for me.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” His fingers are still playing with the leather strap on his wrist. For the second time, Guzman’s gaze is drawn to them.

“I’m guessing the bracelet means that there is no good news from your end?” Guzman asks, though he should know after so many years that Ander does not like discussing his bracelet or what is under it.

Ander regards him and the silence stretches on.

“They could probably read it for you,” Guzman says. “His name. In Córdoba.”

Ander closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He says nothing for several moments. He knows that Guzman means well, that Guzman worries about the name on Ander's wrist just as much as Ander. But the name and what it entails has been a wound in his heart ever since he was old enough to understand that it is there.

“Of course they could,” he says, bitterness lacing every word. “But why should I care?”

Guzman shrugs, but his eyes on Ander are expectant, as if trying to say, _“get the point, moron.”_

“You want me to come with you?” Ander can’t believe the first reference to his bracelet didn’t tick him off. “You want me to travel to Córdoba?”

Guzman nods.

“Really? Why?”

“Because you’re my best friend. I’ve never been as far south as my father is demanding of me. He may think that the Moors are friendly and I do believe him, don’t get me wrong. But I’m still a bit scared of going out of Navarre alone. It would be really comforting if you came.”

Guzman steps closer to Ander, taking Ander’s left hand in his own and raising it so that both their attention is fixed on it. “And who knows, maybe…”

Ander snatches back his wrist at Guzman’s tone. He knows the pity and envy that fill it. It’s been a while since Ander last heard someone talk to him in this way. His parents, after managing to convince him to cover his wrist, avoid the topic. The last time he’d heard Guzman use this tone of voice was when Ander--drunk and hopeless--had reluctantly shown him the writing.

There are reasons--and they are not his parents begging him--that Ander has chosen to keep his wrist covered.

Humans are envious creatures and most do not have a soulmark. When he was young, Ander had thought that because of their rarity, soulmarks would be treated with reverence and awe. But unfortunately, that’s not how society in Navarre works. It had only taken him a day after leaving the Pyrenees for his education to learn how cruel people could be. Generally, those with names on their wrists are treated with a contemptuousness which stems from insecurity. But Ander… Ander who _does_ have a name on his wrist has received jeers and threats because of the name.

Ander has endured years harassment because of what is specifically written there and in what language.

“Maybe I’ll find my soulmate?” He does not mean to be hostile, Guzman has never been mean to him about his soulmark. But years of his parents treating it like a plague, and the pity he’s received from every single person who cares for him, have jaded Ander.

“Yes!” Guzman responds, his countenance changing at Ander’s question. He looks genuinely excited at the concept of Ander finally being able to look for his soulmate. “He must be in Córdoba! Somewhere in Córdoba. _Someone_ will be able to help you.”

Maybe…

Ander closes his eyes. He has despaired of ever finding his soulmate, but what Guzman is proposing brings a spark of hope to his chest.

“Come with me,” Guzman says. “We’ll find him.”

“Will we?”

Guzman nods enthusiastically. “We’ll do our best.”

Ander bites his lip. “I’ll think about it.”

The answer is enough for Guzman. For now.

\--

That night, alone in his room at Guzman’s ancestral castle, sitting by the window looking over the lands belonging to the family, Ander gently unwraps the leather from around his wrist. He looks down at what he’s always known to be the name of his soulmate; a name he has never been able to read. A name in Arabic script, which had driven Ander’s father crazy with anger and Ander’s mother mad with worry. There are half loops and full loops, which Ander has traced time and time again, praying, begging, beseeching some higher entity to help him understand them. He has looked at the name so often that he has the script memorized. Yet, nothing--not constant prayer, fasting, or giving alms to the poor--has made the script legible to Ander.

He traces the lines of his soulmate’s name now with his eyes closed. He does it almost without meaning to, his mind busy, thinking, working, planning. Guzman is going to al-Andalus, to the Caliphate of Córdoba. Guzman’s family has been to the south, and have been trading with the Moors for decades, long before Sancho became king and began his present conflict with the Moors. If they were to travel south, Ander and Guzman would be in virtually no danger. The Moors have no qualms with traders or travelers, they welcome them. Having rejected Christianity, they accept Christians into their lands with open arms.

Ander could go south with Guzman.

If he were to travel south, Ander would be more likely to find his soulmate. There is little chance of someone being able to read Arabic in Navarre, even less of a chance of Ander willingly showing his soulmark to someone. When he had been younger, he’d been excited to reveal his soulmark to anyone who greeted him. But people’s reaction at the name there, their mocking, their assertions that if Ander found his soulmate, his soulmate would probably kill him, had made Ander hesitant to share the name with strangers. One episode stands out as a turning point to Ander. He’d been only thirteen when a traveller had visited their home, had taken one look at Ander’s soulmark and told him his soulmate was the devil himself.

Ander had cried for days until his mother had brought him to a library in Pamplona, where a helpful monk had shown him the Arabic word for devil. Once Ander had realized that his soulmark differed from the word, he’d calmed down.

But at the age of thirteen, he’d vowed to himself that he would show his soulmark to no one, and apart from that one drunken night when he’d shown his mark to Guzman, he had kept that vow. Contrary to what Guzman believes, Ander doesn’t plan on showing his soulmark to the people in al-Andalus either. Anyway, he believes that he will know his soulmate, will be able to recognize him upon meeting him, without the need for Arabic literacy. Soulmates are special and rare. If Ander sees him, he’ll _know him_.

And Ander knows, he knows it in every part of his being, that going south to al-Andalus will result in him finally finding his soulmate.

He’ll meet the man, he’ll know him, and Ander’s inability to read Arabic script won’t matter.

The decision is easy to make in the end. Ander will go south with Guzman and his retinue. Ander will do this in part for Guzman, and he will do it also for his soulmate.

The air shifts as Ander makes this decision.

For a moment he feels disconnected from the world, as if he is weightless, not in his own body. He knows that his eyes must still be closed, because he doesn’t remember opening them, but Ander is now able to see that he is in a well lit-but strange room. From the open window, he can hear singing and music. Warmth settles over his skin, a kind of warmth that the kingdom of Navarre, so close to the Pyrenees mountains, rarely experiences even in spring. There’s laughter coming from somewhere farther away, the sound of water splashing. Ander breathes, moving his head and trying to find something recognizable, but there are too many colors, too much at once, and his vision is overwhelmed.

Then, just as it all began--the noise and the color, the light and the warmth--it stops. One moment Ander is in a foreign home and the next, he finds himself back in his rooms in Guzman’s castle. He blinks his eyes open, looking out the window, and resists the urge to scream.

For the first time in his life, he had connected with his soulmate. Ander’s mother had told him when he was younger, that some soulmates were able to see out of each others’ eyes.

“Why?” Ander had asked.

“It’s supposed to make finding each other easier,” she’d answered.

Ander had believed her. Had always hoped that he’d be lucky enough to connect with his soulmate. He’d thought that a connection with his soulmate would surely mean that he’d get to know _something_ about the man. But now here he is, post vision, with nothing to show for it but a feeling of frustration.

His mind supplies that this vision is a positive thing, a good omen appearing after his decision to travel south, but Ander’s heart hurts. He learned _nothing_ about his soulmate from the vision...

Except that he exists.

Sometimes, in his worst hours, even despite the name on his wrist, Ander has doubted the existence of his soulmate. Now he smiles through his frustration. The castle sleeps, but somewhere in the south, somewhere leagues and leagues away in a country that practices a different religion and speaks a language Ander does not understand, his soulmate is looking out a window.

Ander is certain of it. The vision proves it.

He stands, lighting the single candle in the room, even though the hour is late. The letter that he pens to his father is brief, emotionless. In it he tells his father of his decision to travel south with Guzman.

Then he sleeps.

The next day, he watches Guzman smile, then laugh with joy as Ander announces his intention to accompany him into the Caliphate of Córdoba.

\--

Guzman had already started to prepare for the journey before Ander arrived at his family home, but does not seem to be even halfway finished. Ander has been in Pamplona a fortnight already, his letter to his parents sent and responded to, before Guzman tells him that they are almost ready to leave. “A week or so, and we’ll be on our way.”

Guzman doesn’t mention what is taking so long and Ander does not ask. He helps when he can, but the servants seem more efficient than he could ever be. He spends his time practicing with a wooden sword, talking to Guzman, and watching the preparations.

Some days before they are set to leave, Ander receives another letter, announcing his mother’s plans to travel to Pamplona.

Ander waits for her arrival with trepidation, wondering why she has chosen to visit now. The first correspondence from his family had been brief but not disapproving in tone. His father had expressed concern but had ultimately left the decision to leave up to him. Ander wonders whether his mother is now coming to prohibit him from going south or at least try to persuade him to stay home.

When his mother does arrive, Ander is surprised by the relief he feels at seeing her. He has been away from home for less than a month, yet, he missed his mother.

“Hello,” she greets him as she dismounts. “Having fun away from home.”

“As much as I can.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Are you having fun with me away?”

His mother laughs, “you’re a cheeky child,” she says and hugs him tightly. 

Ander closes his eyes, relishing the moment.

His mother pulls back after a moment. “I’m glad to see you again, but I didn’t come just to chat. You and I need to have a talk.”

Before Ander has a chance to respond, servants surround them and ask his mother if she needs anything. She allows herself to be whisked away by them for refreshments but turns to Ander before she disappears.

“I’ll call for you.” 

Ander watches her go, his relief at seeing her turning into anxiety. He knows that she has come here to talk about al-Andalus, but he hasn’t been able to prepare himself for that conversation. For now, all he can do is wait and hope that his mother does not reprimand him.

Several hours later, Ander’s presence is requested in his mother’s room. He finds her sitting alone with a glass of wine, deep in thought.

He takes the seat opposite her.

Silence. She glances at him, opens her mouth, then closes it. He sees this only from the side of his gaze because he has been decidedly looking at his own hands.

Moments pass. Long. Unbearable. Ander glances up at his mother, his foot tapping. She looks at him, unblinking. Then she closes her eyes and sighs.

“I know how difficult having a soulmate has been for you,” she begins. “I know that your father and myself have not been supportive. You understand,” she pauses. “We’ve been worried about you.”

Ander’s mother puts her right hand palm facing up on the table separating them, a silent request Ander understands. He places his left hand in hers.

“Every parent dreams of their child having and finding their soulmate.” She begins unwrapping the leather strap around Ander’s wrist. “But it is devastating to see the language of one’s enemies on your child’s body.” She finishes unwrapping Ander’s wrist and stares at the name that is there silently, her breathing labored, as if for the first time she’s allowing herself to truly look at Ander’s wrist.

She begins tracing the curved line at the beginning of the name with her pointer finger. “But these things happen for a reason,” she says, continuing the tracing, now onto the looped letter after the first straight one. She presses her finger briefly to the marks above each letter. “Not everyone has a soulmate, but _you do._ I’m sorry that your father and I have not been the most accepting of it.” She looks up at Ander, her eyes full of emotion. “This is your destiny. This will make you happy and I will be happy when you are happy. I will be happy when you find the man you’ve been meant to find. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to express it, but I need you to know that when you go to al-Andalus, you go with my blessing. I love you and whoever your soulmate is, I will love him because he is a part of you.”

Ander nods, his throat suddenly clogged with emotion. He looks down at his wrist once more, then closes his eyes. “Mom, I’m going to stay there until I find him, and maybe after...” He does not say that he might stay even after he finds his soulmate, that he has no qualms with moving south to be with someone, that he has no true feelings for his own country but has dreamed about his soulmate all his life.

“Do what you need to,” his mother reassures him. “I brought you money that should last you a long time. When you run out, write to me for more.” She does not say _if,_ and Ander loves her immensely for it.

With a sigh, Ander’s mother stands, motioning for him to do so as well. She pulls him into a hug again, this time she presses his head against her shoulders like she used to when he was young. When she pulls away, Ander feels a part of himself clinging to her. “I love you more than you can ever imagine,” she says. “You are my only son, and I want you to be happy.”

Ander nods, not trusting himself to speak. She cups his cheek, raising his head with her hands and smiling softly at him. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for in al-Andalus.”

“Thank you.” Ander smiles, overwhelmed with relief and a new determination. “Thank you for coming here. Thank you for giving me your blessing.”

His mother’s smile grows. “Mothers live to give their children bliss. It’s our job.” Then she hugs him again and this time, Ander cannot not stop his tears from falling.

\--

The journey south takes over a month. A month in which Ander has time to decide on how he will approach the finding of his soulmate once they reach Córdoba. Ander doesn’t speak Arabic and he can barely read in Latin. However, he wonders if there are other Christians in Córdoba, ones who will understand him and help him in his search for his soulmate. Ander hopes that his soulmate will be able to speak some Basque, because the chances of him learning Arabic are basically non-existent.

As they move further south the road changes from incomprehensible muddy paths to a well-maintained track. About two weeks into their journey, when they have made their way through the kingdom of Leon and are well and truly in al-Andalus, Ander begins to notice the differences in the quality of the buildings and styles of architecture. The inns at the roadside are no longer wooden huts, but actual buildings with fireplaces and comfortable beds. Ander is used to seeing such buildings only in the wealthy areas of Pamplona.

They had crossed the Ebro river with difficulty, finding a reliable bridge only because of Guzman’s station. Whatever the Romans had built on the Ebro had long been left to ruin and no one had bothered building something new in its place. Ander had thought little of the ruined bridge as they had crossed the Ebro. He is used to the ruins of an older, richer civilization. He’s seen crumbling ruins everywhere, and thinks that they are normal. Of course the people in Navarre cannot build roads or buildings the way that the Romans did. The Romans were different, better builders with more access to material. But they’re gone now, and with them, their engineering and architectural secrets.

The bridges are not safe anymore.

It’s only when Ander and Guzman reach the river Tajo and find a sturdy, well-maintained bridge, that Ander realizes how wrong his assumptions had been. There are places in the world where the river can easily be crossed, where the populace maintains sturdy bridges.

“This is spectacular,” Ander mumbles as their horses make their way across the Tajo. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Guzman nods, watching the river. “We should build things like this in Navarre.”

The next river they pass is furnished by an even more impressive bridge.

It’s not just the architecture that impresses Ander. The locals, some of whom speak Basque well enough to communicate, are more friendly than Ander had ever thought they’d be. They help Ander, Guzman and their small retinue keep their course as they venture deeper into Moorish territory. The inn-keepers look at Guzman’s map and tell him which routes are no longer in use and what roads are in disrepair. At night, people sing and dance and laugh in the streets of the small villages, their dialect a variation of Arabic and the local tongue, and they smile and wave at Ander and Guzman.

With the combination of the well-maintained roads, the colorful buildings, and the kindness of the jovial locals, Ander realizes that he is in a world very different from his own. However, knowing that al-Andalus was different from Navarre does not prepare him for the sight that is the city of Córdoba.

They have to cross the Sierra Morena before they reach the city, and Ander spends days trying to get himself used to the idea of crossing the mountain range. Although born and raised in the Pyrenees, Ander has never liked mountain trails. They’re cold, icy and slippery, and the sun’s heat holds no power in their vast valleys. Ander has never crossed the Pyrenees north, has not made his way into Frankish territory or beyond. He’s heard many stories however, from travelers, villagers and his own family, about people dying in the mountains as they tried to make their way into the Iberian peninsula.

Ander doesn’t want to make his way up and down mountain paths, trying to find handholds and footholds and fearing for his life during the whole thing. But crossing the Sierra Morena goes much faster than Ander had anticipated, and there is an actual path. The Arabs at one point had either built or improved upon the road system established by the Romans, and this road had been extended into the Sierra Morena.

Ander doesn’t fear for his life at all during the crossing.

Once passed the mountains, the city comes into view. Situated at the bottom of the valley, Córdoba rises up to greet them, a sparkling jewel. As Ander and Guzman descend towards it, it begins speaking to them. First the sound of the river, then the people outside the walls.

Ander does not pay attention to the bridge they have to cross to enter the city. Enchanted by the city’s fortifications (the walls loom over Ander in a way he had previously thought possible only in fables) and the busy streets beyond, Ander barely glances at the gate as they enter it.

Inside the walls, the noise grows louder, the voices of people bartering, arguing and yelling mixed with the chatter of birds and the river. But even as they proceed deeper into the city, Ander hears the sound of water running. He looks around to see where another river might be, however all that meets his eyes are buildings hanging with beautiful cloth and people chattering.

When they stop so that Guzman can ask for directions, Ander stays outside with the horses and the retinue. He closes his eyes, gently resting his head against his horse’s flank and allows himself to breath.

The air in Córdoba is familiar to him, like deja vu, or a dream he’d had long ago. But Ander has never been to Córdoba, he’s never even been south of Pamplona. His family has lived in the Pyrenees for generations. Whatever familiarity he feels in this city must be his own invention.

It takes some time before Ander realizes that it’s not an invention, but the memory of his vision at Guzman’s castle. The warmth here is identical to that which he felt when he'd connected with his soulmate. Opening his eyes, Ander listens to the sounds surrounding him, trying to isolate something, _anything_ else as a connection to that vision. He hasn’t found anything by the time Guzman returns with a guide, however he feels unbelievably optimistic about his soulmate being in this large city.

Their guide takes them through the winding streets of Córdoba. Although he tells them proudly as they pass a large square that Córdoba is the biggest city in al-Andalus, he doesn’t chat about the city’s history or stop to show them features. Ander catches glimpses of squares and gardens here and there. He notices colors, the various noises and smells, and the everpresent sound of running water. However, if someone were to ask him to describe the city, Ander wouldn’t be able to do it. 

The streets become more clean and less crowded the more they travel. The houses around them change in quality too. Where once they were made of wood and clay, now the walls rising beside their retinue are made from worked brick with highly adorned doors. It is at one such door that their guide stops.

“The man you seek lives here,” he says and makes his exit.

Guzman knocks on the door, and the porter must have been expecting them. He opens the door and it is only when they’ve entered the building that Ander realizes the house is less of a house and more of a small palace. The walls, even at the entrance, are spaced with arches painted in red and white. He and Guzman leave their small retinue to wait for their own guide and follow the porter inside. As they go, Ander notices a metal grate underneath his foot. He is confused by it, until they reach the first courtyard and the light hits the iron.

Water is running underneath Ander’s feet. Ander has to work very hard not to let his mouth drop open. Instead, he follows the iron grating with his eyes until they reach a beautiful pool, a pool out of which water is shooting.

Ander has never felt provincial. He comes from a respected and well-established family. He’s been raised by monks and scholars and has learned--albeit badly--how to read. He’s always had the finest friends and the finest clothes and yet…

Yet, he’d never seen a fountain this beautiful, one that shoots water into the air. He’d never seen a fountain _this clean_ , let alone in a private home. He looks over at Guzman, who is trying to hide his admiration and asking the porter whether the master of the house is in.

“He has just returned from the mosque,” the porter answers and asks Guzman and Ander to wait in the courtyard while he finds a more suitable person to guide them inside.

“Inside?” Ander walks toward the enchanting fountain. “Aren’t we inside already?”

Guzman shrugs at him. Neither of them have much experience with urban houses in a big city--hell neither of them have much experience with a big city. However, Ander is certain that Guzman is surprised by the magnitude of the house as well.

When Guzman doesn’t offer up any conversation, Ander begins walking around the small courtyard. He’s fascinated by the columns running around the pool, and makes his way toward them. Everything in this house is painted with beautiful and rich colors. The arches of the colonnade are the same red as the ones next to the gate. The columns which support them have intricate carvings of flowers and instruments Ander doesn’t recognize, and the fountain in the center of it all provides the relaxing sound of running water.

Drawn into the architecture, Ander is scarcely aware of the doors inside the colonnade, so when one opens and someone steps out, Ander runs into them.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, in Basque, because he doesn’t know a single word in Arabic.

The person in front of him is shaking his head. Ander looks at him and feels glued to place. 

His mind struggles to find a thought as his heart beats rapidly against his ribcage.

He can tell immediately that this man is not a servant. 

He is of average height--shorter than Ander--with thick black hair, cut close to his head and the thickest eyebrows Ander has ever seen. His features are strong--his jaw angular, his nose prominent, and his lips full. He is most certainly an Arab, and right now his impressive eyebrows are drawn together in a frown.

It takes Ander entirely too long to notice that the man is speaking to him. His heart is beating so loudly in his throat, that it’s hard for him to hear anything the man says.

Forcing his heart to settle does not help Ander. The man is speaking in Arabic.

“Sorry,” Ander says, breathless. He cannot believe how truly handsome and sophisticated this stranger looks. Ander had always had an idea of the savage Moors, people who rode on horseback and pillaged and slaughtered and worshipped a false god. He hadn’t encountered any such people on his way south, nevertheless, he’d thought that the commoners they’d met were very ordinary farmers and tradesmen. He figured the people who lived in the city would be more… _Moor._ This man, with his clean white clothes and his perfectly cut hair, is nothing like the barbarian Ander had been led to believe.

“Sorry,” he says again as the man tilts his head to the side. “I don’t speak Arabic.”

The man nods once, his eyelashes touching his cheek as he blinks. “You’re in luck, because I speak Basque.”

“Ah,” Ander responds.

“Can I help you?” He asks rather shortly. Ander is offended for one moment, but then he realizes that he is the stranger in this situation and the man probably lives here. Here Ander is, an invading foreigner, trampling around this man’s home and running into him without explanation.

He feels his cheeks burning in embarrassment, though when he tries, he cannot look away from the man.

“No,” Ander answers him. “We’ve just arrived from Navarre. We’re waiting to meet the master of the house.” He gestures to where Guzman is sitting on a bench. “We were told by the porter to wait here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be in your way.”

The man shakes his head slowly. His gaze burns against Ander’s skin. “Don’t worry about it.” He looks Ander up and down once, not hostile, but not friendly either. “Goodbye.”

He turns his back to Ander and walks down the colonnade, disappearing through another door. Ander watches his retreating back, unable to look anywhere but at the man.

After the man is gone, Ander wonders if he had offended the man and jeopardized Guzman’s chances at diplomacy. Before he has the opportunity to work himself into a panic however, another person appears, this time through a set of double doors at one side of the colonade.

He introduces himself as the personal servant of the master of the house, and leads them through elaborately decorated rooms to the master himself.

The man is old. Older than Ander has ever seen, ancient really. He introduces himself as Abu-Yusef. Once he and Guzman have shaken hands, he asks after Guzman’s grandfather. He looks truly upset when he learns that Guzman’s grandfather has died. He gestures for Ander and Guzman to sit on soft cushions on the ground. As they settle in, their host tells them about his son, whose family lives in al-Yazirat, and his grandson, who has been studying in Córdoba and living with him.

“He did not particularly want to come,” the old man tells them. “But his education takes precedence and Córdoba is the best place for scholars. Also his father convinced him that he must. His sister wanted to come, you see, but it was not proper for an unmarried girl to travel.”

As they are tired from their own journey, their host urges them to go to their designated rooms and rest.

“We will have plenty of time to talk business once you’ve rested,” he assures Guzman.

When he reaches his room, the extent of his journey and the long hours on horseback catch up with Ander. He falls asleep on the soft bed, wondering if the man he had run into in the courtyard had been Abu-Yusef’s grandson.

\--

**Section II: _Córdoba_**

\--

Ander spends several boring days alone in Abu-Yusef’s tiny palace before he decides he’s had enough. Guzman has been with their host regularly and has had little time to spend with Ander. After four days of wandering the courtyard, feeling like he’s trespassing, and ducking behind pillars to avoid the man he’d encountered on the first day, Ander ventures out.

He has a conversation with the porter before he does so, and obtains a map of the city from the man. But soon, the winding and busy streets of Córdoba overwhelm him and he is very decidedly lost.

Ander has never been in a city this big and doesn’t really know what protocols he should follow. He begins wandering the streets, trying his best not to panic, and looking around to see if there’s a fellow who looks like he can speak Basque.

After what feels like hours, when Ander’s legs begin to hurt and the heat has made him thirsty, he hears a dialect close enough to Basque and he is so excited he almost cries.

He follows the voice to a man, sitting on a stool in front of a fountain and laughing idly with the girl.

“Excuse me,” Ander says to the man, once he’s close enough. “Do you know Basque?”

The man turns to look at him. His eyes narrow for a moment before he shrugs, seemingly making a decision and smiles at Ander. “Of course I do, my friend,” he says in an accent that is barely intelligible to Ander. “Are you from the north?”

Ander nods. “I don’t speak Arabic and I think I may be lost.”

The man, who introduces himself to Ander as Christian, leads Ander to a bookshop--something Ander has never seen before--and introduces him to another man.

“Samuel,” the man says in much clearer Basque. “Christian says you’re lost?”

“Yes,” Ander answers. “I came to Córdoba with a friend who wants to make connections with a local. But I’m just a companion, I have no business here. I got bored, decided to explore and here we are.”

Samuel smiles at him kindly. “Do you want some lunch?”

Thirsty and beginning to feel the first throws of hunger, Ander readily agrees. They return to Samuel’s small home, and as they walk, Ander asks about Samuel’s life.

“Are you a Christian?”

Samuel nods.

“And you chose to live here, under Moorish control?” Ander doesn’t mean to be accusatory. Hell, if he finds his soulmate here, there is no way he’ll leave al-Andalus again. But he doesn’t think Samuel is in Córdoba because of a soulmate.

Samuel nods again, then explains more about his situation. “My parents moved to Córdoba from further north,” he says. “But we never lived in Christian controlled land. Ever since the Moors took over, we’ve lived under Moorish control. It’s not bad. My parents have even thought about converting, but besides the tax, there’s no reason for them to and they feel no actual need to convert. I don’t need to convert either, I’m fine being a Christian, but I must be honest, I have thought about conversion many times.” He talks about religion so matter-of-factly, that Ander is taken off guard. Where Ander comes from, Samuel would be seen as a heretic.

“You mean, you don’t fear hell?” Ander asks.

Samuel shrugs. “The Muslims have their own hell you know, their own devil and eternal damnation. Who am I to decide which one of us is right.”

When they’ve sat down to their lunch Samuel asks Ander a question that Ander expects has been bothering him for a while.

“Why did you come to Córdoba?” Samuel asks. “If you don’t have any business here and you don’t speak the language. Traveling is grueling and you must feel like a complete alien.”

Ander, chewing on his bread to buy himself time, thinks about what he can tell Samuel. He’s just met the man, but Samuel has kind eyes and an honest attitude. Ander doesn’t particularly feel open to telling him his whole life story, but he doesn’t want to lie to the man about his motives either.

Moreover, Samuel could possibly help Ander in his search for his soulmate. After almost a week of being together in Córdoba, Ander has realized that Guzman has too many responsibilities to accompany Ander as he tries to find his soulmate. Having a friend who speaks Basque and Arabic, who is sympathetic to Ander and who knows the city, might help Ander find his soulmate a lot more easily.

“How do Moors feel about soulmates?” Ander asks his new friend finally. He thinks this is a good place to start the conversation, before he steers it toward more personal matters.

Samuel doesn’t have to think long before he answers. “They think soulmates are very special,” he says. “They’re very rare of course, and a few centuries ago, soulmate marks weren’t seen as a very significant thing. Wealthy families would often cover their children’s wrists if there were names on them, so they could marry them off for political gain. The first Emir--that’s a prince--of Córdoba’s mother was like this. She was forcibly separated from her soulmate and it destroyed her mind. So the prince made a rule that made it illegal for any families to hide their children’s soulmates or force them to marry someone if they have a soulmark.”

Ander listens, fascinated.

“There’s a registry now,” Samuel continues. “Once two people find each other, they can register with an official and no one in al-Andalus has the power to separate them.”

“Wow,” Ander says. “It’s nothing like that back home.”

Samuel shrugs. “It’s not really a law that affects a lot of people, so I’m sure the first Emir didn’t have too much trouble putting it into practice. A pair is hard to find, one in every few thousand I’m told, but I don’t know.”

Ander nods. “That’s what I’ve been told too.”

“Why? Tell me what soulmates have to do with you coming to Córdoba.”

Ander watches Samuel silently, waiting for him to get it. Samuel returns his gaze, first confused, but then he gets it and his eyes widen.

“ _You_ have a soulmark?”

Ander nods.

“And they live in Córdoba?”

“I don’t know,” Ander answers, dropping his gaze. “I don’t know who my soulmate is. The name is written in Arabic, so it _must be_ an Arab. My parents had long given up on me finding my soulmate or being happy with them once I had but…”

“You didn’t give up?” Samuel’s voice is kind.

Ander shakes his head. “I know how rare it is to have a name written on your wrist. I know that I won’t be happy until I find him.”

Samuel nods. “So you came down here?”

“There are Arabs here, there’s a strong chance that my soulmate is one of them.”

Samuel nods again. “I can read the name for you.” He extends his hand, awaiting Ander’s wrist.

But Ander doesn’t put his wrist in Samuel’s hand. He shakes his head and leans backward. “You can’t look at it…”

“Why not?” Samuel asks.

“Because…” Ander doesn’t really have a good explanation for Samuel. He is not sure whether Samuel will understand the trauma of that lone traveler, calling Ander’s soulmate the devil. He’s not even sure he can explain how people mocked Ander for his soulmark, how his excitement about it turned into hesitance and then fear.

“No,” he says finally, when Samuel opens his mouth to say something. “I don’t want you to read it.”

“Why not?” Samuel asks.

“It’s personal. I’ll show it to my soulmate.”

Samuel is looking at him, confused. “How will you know who the right person is if you don’t know the name?”

Ander shrugs. “I’ll know him when I see him.” And there are the visions, about which he says nothing to Samuel. “I _know_ I’ll know him.”

Samuel seems to think this an agreeable enough answer and shrugs. “If you’d like… the offer stands.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather not,” Ander responds. “You can still help me though, if you’re up to it,” he continues hesitantly.

“Do you want me to teach you Arabic?”

Ander almost laughs. Poor Samuel, he doesn’t know how difficult it would be to teach Ander another language. “No, I won’t be able to learn Arabic,” Ander says. “But I’d love to see the city if you’re up to being a guide.”

Samuel must be pretty sharp, because he immediately understands Ander’s movies. “Maybe you’ll run into your soulmate.”

“Maybe,” Ander answers. “Also, this place is spectacular. We have nothing like it in Navarre.”

“I’ve never been to Navarre, but I believe you.” Samuel stands, motioning for Ander to do the same. “I have to go back to the shop, but I have tomorrow off. If you’d like, I can meet you at the Great Mosque and show you around. You can be a tourist.” _And run into your soulmate maybe,_ Samuel doesn’t say, but the words hang heavily between the two of them.

“Yeah,” Ander agrees. “Yeah I can do that.”

Samuel draws him a map, one more extensive than the one the porter had given him and using that map, Ander finds his way back to Abu-Yusef’s house .

He briefly catches a glimpse of the back of the man he suspects to be Abu-Yusef’s grandson as he enters the courtyard. His heart jumps in his ribcage for reasons unknown to Ander, and he stops dead in his tracks, waiting until he hears a door being closed before hesitantly entering the courtyard.

Alone in his opulent room, Ander tries not to think about why the sight of Abu-Yusef’s grandson makes him act like a brainless idiot and a bumbling buffoon. It’s not good to dwell on questions he can’t answer.

\---

The next day, Guzman eats breakfast with Ander before leaving to do whatever the hell it is he’s doing in Córdoba. Ander waits until midmorning before setting out. Samuel had told him that the Great Mosque was a titan, looming over the city, with tall minarets and a high roof. He’d said it would be impossible for Ander to miss it.

He’d been right. Ander sees the mosque long before he reaches the square. He tries very hard not to stop and stare once he spots it. The building is bigger than anything he’s ever seen before. The minarets stretch toward the sky, and the mosque itself glitters in the late morning light.

Dragging his eyes away from the breathtaking building, Ander forces himself to keep walking. Once he’s reached the square, he sees Samuel, standing with another under the shade of a tree. The man has his back to Ander, but Samuel is facing him and waves Ander over.

“Hi,” Samuel says cheerfully when Ander is within hearing distance. Ander is about to echo his greeting, but at that moment, the man with Samuel turns and Ander stumbles.

Samuel rushes to his side, helping him to stand. Once Ander has regained his footing, Samuel, oblivious to the internal war inside of him, introduces Ander to his friend.

His friend, who is the man Ander has been avoiding for almost a week.

The man looks at Ander, his brows furrowing thoughtfully.

“Omar, this is my new friend Ander,” Samuel says. “He’s just got here from Navarre and he absolutely doesn’t speak Arabic.”

As if on auto-pilot, Ander shakes the man’s hand.

Omar, Samuel had said. Ander wonders if Omar dislikes him due to their weird meeting, he wonders if Omar even remembers him.

“We’ve met,” Omar says slowly. “He’s staying at my grandpa’s.”

“Yes,” Ander echoes, his voice faint, as if coming out of a well. It bodes well that Omar isn’t denying their meeting. “My friend and he might start some kind of… trade deal.”

“You’ve met,” Samuel says, his voice delighted. If Ander could drag his eyes away from Omar, he would turn to see the look on Samuel’s face but he cannot. “Spectacular!”

“Yes,” Ander repeats, voice getting stronger, though he’s not sure whether his first meeting with Omar could be called spectacular. It hadn’t been disastrous, but as far as first meetings go, it hadn’t been great.

“I thought Omar could help us see the city,” Samuel says, once Ander has regained enough control to turn towards him. “His being a local and all.”

Omar scoffs at his friend, looking just a bit less guarded. “I’m not a local. I was born and raised somewhere else. _You’re_ the local.”

Shrugging, Samuel says. “Yes, but you’re Muslim. We’re more likely to see cool things if we’re with you.”

Omar doesn’t argue, instead he turns to Ander. “What is it you wanted to see?”

Ander, unused to this man’s attention on him, finds himself at a loss for words. “I… don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know anything about Córdoba.”

His answer doesn’t deter Omar, who turns the question toward Samuel. Together they decide to show Ander the public palace gardens and the leather making quarter of the city.

“What about the public baths?” Samuel asks Omar.

“Not today,” Omar responds. “My grandfather has baths in his own house, and I don’t feel like dealing with the general rabble today.”

They take Ander to see the tanners first, an idea which seems to delight Omar.

“It stinks,” Omar, tells Ander as they begin walking. “But it’s very cool.”

It does stink, Ander thinks, as they enter the tanning quarters, but it’s not so bad that Ander has to cover his nose.

“I’ve smelled much worse back home,” he tells Omar.

“How?” Omar asks him and when Ander doesn’t answer, he asks again. “Come on, I won’t judge.”

“He will,” Samuel chimes in.

“Only a little.” Omar’s smile is disarming. “Come on, let’s start this friendship with honesty.”

“Ok, I’ll tell you. People don’t bathe where I live. They don’t like it, they think it’s unhealthy.”

“Unhealthy?”

Ander nods.

“Didn’t Charlemagne like to bath?”

Ander laughs. “The man lived two hundred years ago and he was a Frank. How would I know what he liked to do?”

“So your people don’t bathe?”

“They do once in a while,” Ander answers. Well not necessarily once in a while, generally once or twice in their life.

“And when was the last time you bathed?”

“Do I smell?” Ander asks, laughing.

Omar smiles at him in return, a quick smile but one that lights up his face. “No more than any other northerner.”

Samuel says something then, directing Ander’s attention to the vats filled with a reddish yellow liquid, which he tells Ander is Sumac, and Ander doesn’t have a chance to answer Omar.

It’s after they’ve left the tanning shops and the leather makers' quarters, the smell of the place lingering on them, that Omar brings up baths again. “Remind me to show you the bath in my grandfather’s home,” he tells Ander, voice teasing. “You’re going to need to be scrubbed clean of that odor if the poor servants are expected to be around you. Your natural northern smell is amplified tenfold.”

Samuel looks witheringly at Omar while Omar teases Ander, but he doesn’t say anything in opposition. Ander doesn’t mind the ribbing. He thinks that if Omar feels comfortable enough to tease him, then their unfortunate first meeting must be forgiven.

The gardens, when they arrive, take Ander’s breath away. They are nicer than Ander could have ever imagined, filled with exotic flowers and blooming orange trees. The strong scent of the flowers slowly eradicates the lingering smell of leather and Ander feels somewhat intoxicated as they walk.

They meet several people in the gardens as well. People who stop and greet Omar, people who flag down Samuel and talk to him in Arabic. It is during one of the latter that Omar gestures for Ander to follow him.

“That is ibn-Afaf and that man can talk,” he tells Ander. “We’ll be lucky if he releases Samuel in the next hour.”

“ _Requiscat in pace,_ ” Ander responds sympathetically, and to his surprise, Omar laughs.

“Indeed.”

Ander shouldn’t be surprised that Omar knows Latin. The man can speak Basque very well, and his grandfather had said that he’d been studying in Córdoba. Of course he knows Latin. Ander wonders if Omar knows any other languages.

“Come,” Omar grabs Ander’s arm and Ander feels a jolt go through him at his touch. “I want to show you something.”

He follows, silent, as Omar takes him to the center of the complex, to a garden filled with various colors of roses.

“You came at the right time,” Omar tells him. “The roses are in bloom.”

Ander watches the flowers, unable to say anything. He’s never seen so many roses in one place, he’s never seen such a variety of flowers. There are yellow and lilac roses, white and pink roses, and roses with petals that vary in color.

“These,” Omar says, pointing to the ones with the mixed petals. “Came from Persia. The last Caliph had them especially shipped here for one of his concubines.”

“Wow,” Ander manages to say. “These are… I don’t know what to say.”

Omar smiles at him, his gaze soft. The sun is hitting his eyes and making the brown in them stand out, and for a moment, Ander is taken aback, not by the exotic flowers, but by Omar’s beauty. Ander has to look away, the sight is too much.

“Foreigners like this place a lot,” Omar tells him. “Do you want a rose?”

“Can I have one?” Ander is taken aback by the offer. When they’d first met, he’d thought that Omar would hate him. He hadn’t made the best first impression. After his actual introduction to Omar, he’d hoped for a hesitant acceptance.

Omar is not only friendly, but kind to Ander, and Ander, who still has a hard time acting like a human being around Omar, doesn’t understand the kindness.

“Of course,” Omar answers in a voice that implies he can do whatever he wants. “No one will mind one missing rose.”

Omar flags down a gardener, who knows him well enough to talk to him in a respective tone, and cuts off a rose with a long stem to give to Ander.

Ander takes the rose with a shaking hand and holds it tentatively. It smells spectacular and its beauty continues surprising him, but it is not the rose that has the greatest effect on Ander. It’s Omar, whose delighted gaze has made it hard for Ander to breathe.

“We don’t have anything like this at home,” he tells Omar honestly, once he finds his voice. Although being around him seems to make Ander more idiotic than usual, he finds that Omar’s indulgent smiles are something he wants to see constantly. “Flower gardens are not a priority of the kingdom of Navarre.”

“I can imagine,” Omar touches one of the flower’s petals with the tip of his finger. “It must be terribly gloomy there.”

Ander shrugs, gaze fixed on Omar’s finger. He wonders how it would feel against his own cheek. “If you don’t know that a place like this exists, then it’s not so bad.”

His words make Omar laugh, looking at Ander like they’re both in on the joke. Their eyes lock and the moment continues as they stare at each other.

Ander looks away first, unable to handle looking at Omar for too long.

When he looks back, Omar is shaking his head, as if trying to clear it. “There’s a fountain in the back,” he says after a moment. “Do you want to see it?”

Ander nods and follows him, holding his rose with both hands.

The fountain is bigger than the one in Omar’s grandfather’s house, but it has the same conceit, with water shooting out of several pipes.

“Where does the water come from?” Ander asks Omar.

Omar points down to the ground. “Do you hear that gurgling?”

Ander nods. “I thought I was imagining it, but I’ve been here for a week and there is the constant sound of running water. I figured it’s just a quirk of the city.”

Omar bumps his shoulder against Ander’s with a smile.

“Come on, Ander.” The way he says Ander’s name makes Ander shudder. There’s intonation there that Ander has not heard before. “You know better than that. Why do you hear running water in Córdoba?”

“Because the water is running?”

Omar laughs. “There are lead pipes and water canals underneath the street. The Roman aqueducts were in disrepair when the Emirs first moved in, but they rebuilt a lot of those structures. The water comes in through the pipes and the canals and comes out through fountains and water poles.”

“Wow.” Ander watches the large fountain, with its dancing water. “The Moors actually rebuilt Roman aqueducts.” A realization makes Ander stop his musing. “Does this mean that there’s running water in your grandpa’s home?”

Omar nods. “Remind me again to show you the baths. No joke about your smell,” he adds with a smile which, although not new, manages to disarm Ander nonetheless. “But they are really nice. The public baths are good too, but we don’t want to be dealing with ten ibn-Afafs, do we?”

He’s looking at Ander for an answer and Ander barely manages to breathe out a “no.”

“Good man,” Omar says and points Ander toward another section of the fountain.

Ander thinks, walking behind Omar, hanging on every single one of Omar’s words and learning absolutely too much about fountain making, that Omar could be his soulmate. Wouldn’t it make sense, for this man, who manages to completely disarm Ander with one look, to be his soulmate?

Ander swallows.

No. Omar knows Latin, he would have been able to read a soulmark on his own wrist. He would have recognized Ander by name.

Ander follows him, trying to convince himself that there is no way Omar is his soulmate, and tries not to be charmed by everything Omar does.

They say goodbye to Samuel when they’ve returned to the Great Mosque, and Omar and Ander return to the house of Omar’s grandfather.

“Why haven’t I seen you at dinner?” Omar asks Ander in that peaceful courtyard. “Your friend has come a few times.”

Ander shrugs. “I didn’t want to impose. I don’t have any business being here and I already feel like I’m trespassing.”

“Don’t,” Omar says to him. “Come to dinner. In fact, I’ll have someone fetch you!”

Then he shows the extensive bath room, tiled with Byzantine mosaics and scented with rose water to Ander.

Ander is impressed by the bath, no doubt about it, but what catches his gaze as Omar explains to him how to use the bath, is the way the sunlight, flowing through a window, hits Omar’s hair. It halos around him, making Omar seem like he’s shining. Ander is so transfixed by it, that he doesn’t notice Omar trying to get his attention.

“Ander?” The way Omar says his name will be the death of him.

“Yes?”

“Did the intricacies of the bath confuse you?”

Ander shakes his head. “No. I can wash myself?”

“Sure? Want me to stay and help?”

Ander’s eyes widen. That is an absolutely awful idea. “I’m not a child, Omar.” He likes the way Omar’s name sounds coming out of his mouth.

Omar walks toward Ander, putting both hands on Ander’s shoulders. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Fuck off.” Ander says, pushing at his chest. “I can bathe!”

Laughing, Omar leaves Ander to his bath.

When the servant comes for Ander at dinnertime, Ander follows him to a room decorated with colored cloth and covered in pillows and rugs. There is no table, the food is set up on the ground. Omar, already sitting down motions Ander over to sit by him.

“Grandpa is running late,” he says as Ander sits down cross legged. “Are you going to be ok eating on the floor? Your friend had many hesitations the first time he had dinner with us.”

Ander nods. “I had food on the floor with Samuel. I don’t get it, but I can do it.”

“I don’t get tables,” Omar responds. “Why sit high when the floor is right there?”

“The floor is cold and damp,” he responds.

“Is it?” Omar pats the ground and then raises his fully dry hand to show to Ander. “Is it?”

Ander bites his lip, laughter bubbling up in his chest and threatening to burst out. He pretends to inspect Omar’s hand, taking it in his own and passing his thumb over it.

“Could be?”

Unlike Ander, Omar doesn’t suppress his laughter. He laughs and laughs at Ander’s answer, and his laughter sounds like a song. Ander watches him, feeling his heart hurt, and unable to stop himself from joining in, until they’re both doubled over, laughing at nothing in particular.

Omar laughs until tears come out of his eyes. When he has managed to calm himself down, he rests his forehead against Ander’s shoulder and breathes.

Ander is now overwhelmed by a completely different feeling. He tries to calm down his beating heart, but he has no control over it.

Finally, unfortunately, Omar lifts his head. There is still laughter in his eyes when he looks at Ander. “Crazy foreigner.”

“Me?” Ander asks, faking indignation. “I’m not the one eating on the floor.”

“I’m not the one claiming that perfectly fine earth is damp.”

They fall into another bout of laughter.

Omar’s grandfather never shows up to dinner, but Guzman does join them. He interrupts Omar and Ander’s useless and meandering argument about the usefulness of tables. He must be surprised to see Ander, but that surprise is overwhelmed by the shock of seeing Ander laugh with Omar. Guzman finds his composure quickly and expresses delight at seeing Ander with a friend.

After dinner, Guzman follows Ander to one of the many terraces in the house and asks him about the new development.

“I met Omar today through Samuel.” Ander has to explain to Guzman who Samuel is. “And I think we get along.”

Guzman’s eyes flash momentarily before he smiles at Ander. “That’s spectacular! I’m sorry you’ve been cooped up here. Apparently establishing good relations with the Moors comes with a lot of diplomacy.”

“No worries,” Ander responds. “Omar is good company.” That’s really an understatement. It’s been a day and Ander already knows that he _loves_ Omar’s company. He feels different when Omar is around, more aware, more sensitive to the things around him, more content. But because it’s only been a day, Ander knows he can’t say things like “ _Being around him makes me feel like I’m on a different plane of existence,”_ to Guzman.

“He’s also an Arab,” Guzman says. “He can read the name on your wrist and help you find your soulmate!”

Ander looks sharply at Guzman, trying to quell the sudden anger that has bloomed in his gut. Guzman knows how reluctant Ander is to show his soulmark to people. He knows and yet here he is making this suggestion as if it’s an ordinary thing.

Guzman is only doing what he thinks is best, Ander tells himself and he breathes out. Guzman cares about Ander a ridiculous amount and wants him to be happy.

Ander stares at Guzman silently until Guzman gets that he spoke out of turn. He sighs, and when Ander narrows his eyes, Guzman rolls his own.

“Ander you came all this way!” Guzman does nothing to hide his frustration. “Don’t throw it all away by being stubborn about your soulmark. Abu-Yusef’s grandson can help you. He’s an asset.”

Ander shakes his head. “Only my soulmate is going to see my mark.”

“Why though?” Guzman asks, frustrated.

Ander doesn’t have a logical answer for him. Or at least, his answer hasn’t changed since the last time Guzman had asked him this question. _Because I don’t want anyone else to see it_ , he wants to say but doesn’t, _because I don’t trust anyone but my soulmate to tell me the truth_. He knows that Guzman will call him childish and irrational, will say that it’s now Ander who is standing in the way of his own happiness. But still, Ander had made a vow, and he will not break it now.

He can’t. He’s considered it before, and every time his stomach begins to hurt at the mere thought.

“I can’t show my soulmark to anyone else,” he finally says, an answer to the question that Guzman had asked, but not one that can satisfy Guzman.

“Ander.” Guzman looks ready to argue.

Ander doesn’t let him. “Guzman, I told you I can’t. Can you please accept my decision and let me live my life?”

“But--”

“I said no,” Ander says, his voice rising. Next to him, Guzman gives up the fight and sighs.

“So you’re just going to wander the city of Córdoba until you run into him? Is that your plan?”

“Yep.”

“That’s bananas,” Guzman says. “At least learn to read Arabic script.”

His words make Ander laugh. “You think I can learn to read Arabic? Guzman you’ve known me all my life.”

Guzman shakes his head. “I just want to help you.”

“I’m a big boy,” Ander answers. “I can take care of myself.”

\---

That night, when he lays down to sleep, Ander’s vision shifts again. This time, he’s lying down in a dark room and there’s the sound of running water outside. Before Ander can fully take in his surroundings, he hears the sound of someone clashing against wood and cursing, which breaks him out of the vision. When he looks again, he is back in his own room.

The vision gave him nothing to hold on to, except that wherever his soulmate is, it’s somewhere with running water, so the man must be in Córdoba.

\--

Ander spends more and more time with Omar in the next few weeks.

Omar finds him the very next day, and asks if Ander has any plans. Ander does not, so Omar takes him to his grandfather’s study and they chat as Omar writes something in Arabic script. Ander’s days become filled with Omar after that. Omar takes him to little shops in Córdoba, to fountains and libraries, he even takes Ander outside of the city, to show him the beautiful palace built by Abd Al-Rahman III. They can’t go inside, of course, not without an invitation, but Ander’s amazement at the walls delights Omar to no end.

“Didn’t you say you were nobility?”

Ander shrugs. “Being nobility in Navarre is different from being nobility here, I think.”

Omar laughs. Ander has become particularly attached to that laughter. 

One day, as they are sitting in an inner courtyard in Abu-Yusef’s home, Omar idly reading a book and Ander dipping his leg into the decorated pool, Omar asks Ander about his knowledge of the south.

“I know absolutely nothing,” Ander responds cheerfully. “Your lot rules it now, before that there were others, and before that there were the Romans.”

Omar’s eyebrows raise in astonishment. “I’m starting to doubt your claim toward nobility,” he tsks, shaking his head. “How do you not know about the Romans and Visigoths in Iberia?”

“Minor nobility.” Ander hufs. “I said I know _a bit_ about the Romans…”

“How much is a bit?”

Ander bites his lip to keep from smiling. “I know they were here at some point.”

Omar bursts out laughing. “You are a treasure.”

Ander knows he is being teased, yet he cannot help the pleasure that runs through him at the words. “Tell me something about the Romans then.”

“Well, a lot of the buildings they left behind served as foundations when the Arab settlers arrived. Some, of course, are still standing.” Omar pauses. “Were you impressed by the bridge?”

“The bridge?”

“The bridge that leads into the city. It’s Roman. Reconstructed of course, a few centuries ago, but the foundations are Roman.”

Ander nods. He has never particularly been into history. He knows that before the Moors and before his own people, the Iberian peninsula had been a part of the Roman Empire. He sees the ruins of it still, in the Pyrenees and Navarre. But it’s hard for him to imagine Roman ruins here, where the Moors rule.

“I walked on the bridge when we were coming into the city,” Ander says slowly. “But I didn’t pay attention to it.”

“It’s a beautiful feat of engineering,” Omar is saying. “Do you want to see it?”

Ander nods. He almost says that he wants to do whatever it is that Omar wants him to do. In the few weeks that they’ve known each other, Ander has become dependent on Omar’s conversation and his company. On days when Omar is busy or has to go to school, Ander feels like he’s jumping out of his skin, even Guzman’s presence is not as good as Omar’s.

For the millionth time since they’d met, Ander wishes Omar were his soulmate.

“It will be crowded during the day, but it’s lit up at night,” Omar is saying, completely unaware of Ander’s woes. “We could get a good look at it and the city at night if you’d like.”

“Yes.”

Ander would like that very much.

They venture out after dinner, telling the porter where they’re headed. As he says goodbye to the man, Ander thinks he should probably learn the man’s name.

Outside, the city is not asleep. There are sounds coming out of open doors and people singing in the streets. The streets of Córdoba are lively during the day, but as Ander and Omar make their way toward the Roman bridge, Ander thinks that even during the night, the city is alive and vibrant.

The bridge is lit up by torches, and in the light of the fires it looks ethereal. Ander hesitates as they step out of the gates. For a moment, the flickering lights make him doubt the bridge’s realness. Omar turns to him, then offers Ander his hand.

Without thinking, Ander takes it.

Omar stops when they reach the middle of the bridge, the city to one side. Unfortunately, he drops Ander’s hand so that they can both lean against the stone railing and look down at the dark river.

In the light of the torches Ander can see his own flickering reflection next to Omar’s. He turns his head, watching Omar as Omar looks down.

“This bridge,” Ander begins, trying to gather his thoughts. “Its existence feels like a miracle.”

Omar is silent, staring into the dark water. Ander wonders whether Omar has heard him, and is about to repeat what he’d said when Omar speaks up.

“How much of it is Roman?” Omar asks, his voice thoughtful. “I ask myself that all the time. How much of it has been here for almost a thousand years? Can you imagine those Roman architects, hammering away in the Guadalquivir river and building this thing?” Omar looks up then, his eyes bright, reflecting something more than just the torches on the bridge. “A thousand years ago, people were here and they decided the river needed a bridge. They went into the water, they hauled rocks from a quarry. They were here, walking on this same bridge, talking, laughing, feeling. They were here and now we’re here.”

Ander is more fascinated by Omar himself than by the bridge and its age. Omar’s excitement about long dead people charms him however, and he smiles, nodding. “We’re pretty lucky,” Ander says.

Omar leans toward him and touches their shoulders. “So goddamn lucky. What do you think they’d say to us if they were here right now?”

“Something in Latin, probably,” Ander responds. He likes the bridge, he really does, and he likes how fascinated Omar is by it, but… “I liked the roses more.”

Omar glances at him sidelong, he’s grinning. “Figures, you’re a heathen. You don’t understand the importance of the bridge.”

Ander doesn’t argue with that, he knows Omar is joking. “The flowers smelled good.”

“In direct contrast to you at the time.”

Ander laughs. The more time he spends with Omar, the more he finds himself laughing. He thinks if he doesn’t find his soulmate and decides to return to Navarre, he’ll have his parents build a garden and a bath at their home.

“They were beautiful as well, and soft,” Ander says once he’s stopped laughing.

He turns in time to see Omar glancing at him, mirth in his eyes. Ander waits for him to say something, _anything_. The moment is charged and Ander feels himself being drawn toward Omar. He wants to lean in, is even waiting for Omar to lean in, but Omar looks away wordlessly and the moment passes. Ander tries to tell himself that he is not disappointed.

As they walk back, Ander reasons that it’s good that Omar didn’t say anything. No matter how drawn Ander is to Omar, he has a soulmate somewhere. A soulmate that cannot be Omar, because Omar has not brought up soulmarks to Ander and must not have one himself. There’s no point in developing feelings for Omar when there is no future with him.

Caught up in his disappointment, Ander begins walking slower than Omar. Omar doesn’t seem to mind, especially now that Ander knows his way around Córdoba. The streets of the city are still filled with noise. Here and there, there are pockets of people, talking, laughing, singing. Ander watches them, lagging behind, but keeping Omar in his sight. Then, as they pass a dark alley, Ander hears the distinct sound of a lute.

He stops. The music floats through the pleasant night air, echoing around the walls, beckoning him. When Ander closes his eyes, he hears the ghost of a voice behind the lute. Feeling that the voice is calling him, Ander begins walking toward it without another thought.

Ander doesn’t know how long he walks, following the music and singing with his ears. He reaches a dead end eventually and looks around, trying to gather himself. The music still flows, and Ander can see that its source is a little nook at the end of the alley, occupied by strange looking men.

The men are kneeling on the ground, their heads and hands raised in prayer. They’re chanting in Arabic and one man, holding a lute, is accompanying them with music.

A moment passes and the strange men drop their hands and their head. Ander thinks that they must be done with their…. Whatever it was they were doing, but before he has the chance to worry about where he is or what he is going to do now, one of the strange men, noticing him, points in his direction.

The man says something in Arabic, which Ander doesn’t understand. Seeming to catch on to Ander’s confusion, the man switches into an accented Basque.

“Come.”

As if under a spell, Ander walks forward.

He stops right in front of the man and the man stretches out a hand, gesturing to Ander to take it. Ander hesitantly places his wrist in the man’s grip, the man looks closely at the leather band covering Ander’s soulmark and tsks. He looks up and passes a hand over his own eyes. “Close.”

“Why?”

“We have a gift for you,” the man responds.

Ander hesitantly complies. As soon as his eyes are closed, he’s no longer in the streets of Córdoba. It’s no longer night.

Ander is at the beach, his face turned toward the sea, the breeze glancing against his skin. When he looks away from the sea, he sees ruins that he thinks might be Roman. There’s someone calling Ander’s name, loudly, incessantly. When Ander turns toward the sound, his eyes open and there’s Omar.

Disoriented Ander blinks.

It’s night again, he’s in Córdoba.

Omar looks pissed.

Before Ander can react, Omar is next to him.

“What the fuck, Ander?” His voice is loud enough to echo in the alley. “Where the fuck do you get off going into side streets by yourself? One moment you were there and the next you had disappeared. You gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

Ander looks at Omar’s expression and sees fear behind the anger. Remorseful, he opens his mouth to tell Omar that he’s sorry, that he wasn’t really in control of himself as he followed the music, but the words die in his mouth.

“Moron,” Omar is saying, putting his hands on Ander’s shoulders. “I’m going to lock you in your room.”

He’s smiling, and so Ander smiles as well.

Next to them the strange man coughs.

As Omar turns to him, his expression sours. He says something harshly to the man in Arabic.

The man responds, holding out his palm and gesturing to Ander with his head.

Shaking his head and saying words that _sound_ unkind, Omar reaches into his pocket and puts a few coins in the man’s hand. The man smiles even as Omar seemingly berates him. His fingers close around the coins and he turns to Ander.

Omar says one last thing to the man, and shaking his head, the man turns around.

“He’s got his money, so he’s done with us now. Come on, asshole. Let’s go home.”

“But…” Ander hesitates.

“He’s done, Ander. Let’s go home.”

Omar grabs Ander’s arm to take him back to the main street, and as his skin touches Ander’s, Ander feels once again that he’s at the beach, the wind blowing against his face, someone calling his name.

Omar releases his arm and the feeling disappears.

As they find their way back to the main road, Ander gathers enough courage and asks. “Who were those men? What did they do to me? What did they want?”

“Nomadic acolytes,” Omar responds, spitting out the words. “They claim to have prophetic powers. Supposedly they showed you the future, but everything they do is bullshit. They just wanted money.”

Ander opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Omar stops him.

“It’s best if you just forget about them, they are literally useless.”

Ander doesn’t ask anything else. Omar’s disdain for the acolytes is clear and Ander has already made Omar upset once tonight. So although he wants to tell Omar about what the acolyte showed him, and their bewitching music, he keeps his mouth shut. In fact they are both quiet until they reach Abu-Yusef’s house.

The porter isn’t too happy to be awakened by them, but he smiles and nods his head as they pass through.

Before they part, Ander turns to Omar, needing to say something, to maybe apologize about his behavior, but Omar is faster than him.

“Everything is ok, Ander, don’t stress,” he says. “I’m not mad, I was a little annoyed that you just walked into the acolyte gathering but it’s all in the past ok? Everything is fine.”

Ander wants to argue, wants to say that everything is not fine, that he shouldn’t have wandered off by himself, shouldn’t have worried Omar, but he doesn’t want to disagree with Omar, not when Omar is being so patient with him.

“Ok.”

Ander goes to bed feeling unmoored.

\--

He dreams that he is lost in the streets of Córdoba and someone is calling his name, but when he turns toward the voice, there is no one there.

\--

The next night, Ander dreams of the sea.

He’s walking outside the boundaries of a ruined building, passing half standing columns. The sea next to him is calm, reflecting the morning sun. He turns toward it, wanting to enjoy the warm breeze coming in. Ander closes his eyes, feeling the sun on his skin and listening to the calmly moving waves.

He turns back to the ruins. Ander has seen Roman ruins before, but he’s never entered any. This ruin, which must be Roman, is well preserved, its columns reaching higher than Ander’s head. Ander can even pick out seats carved into the hillside. He walks toward them, intending to climb up them, when he hears someone calling his name.

He thinks he recognizes the voice, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t think of the name of the person who is calling him.

The voice calls out for him again.

Ander turns.

There’s no one behind him. He’s completely alone. Confused, Ander looks behind him, but the Roman ruin and the beach beyond are deserted.

Against his wrist, Ander feels leather slipping. His wristband has fallen. Ander raises his hand, looking at the place where his soulmate's name would be.

His wrist is blank.

No name. Nothing.

Ander wakes up panting.

In his haste to check for the name on his wrist, he almost rips the leather bracelet apart. The name however, has not disappeared. It’s where it has always been, dark letters contrasting against Ander’s skin.

He grips his left wrist, cradling it to his heart and trying to control his breathing.

It was just a nightmare. His soulmate’s name hasn’t disappeared.

Ander throws himself back into the bed, closing his eyes and willing himself to go back to sleep.

Sleep, however, does not come.

Ander lays among his pillows and his light blanket and thinks about the horrible dream.

It had been almost identical to the vision the acolyte had shown him. Ander doesn’t know what that means, and if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t want to know what it means.

Outside, the cicadas are singing, and Ander can feel the passage of time.

Unable to sleep after what feels like several hours, Ander leaves his bed and begins wandering the halls.

He hasn’t spent too much time exploring the house, and after only a short time, he finds that he is lost. In an almost dreamlike state, Ander continues walking, his path lit by moonlight. Taking a turn, he hears the sound of splashing water and follows it to a small, private courtyard he’d never seen before.

He’d want to say that the first thing that caught his eye when he entered the courtyard was the elaborate pool, but that would be a lie. The first thing that catches Ander’s eye when he steps into the courtyard is Omar, his back to Ander and the entrance, half submerged in the water. There’s a warm breeze gently tickling the trees, and Omar is lit up both by the light of the full moon and candles, placed with no consistency around the pool.

Ander watches, transfixed, as the candlelight flickers. He is so engrossed in the way the light moves against Omar’s bare skin, that he almost jumps when Omar dips into the pool. He rises immediately, his body covered in droplets and his hair wet. The water twinkles against the candlelight and Ander can see small goosebumps on Omar’s back. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Omar has partially turned around. And something on his wrist, catching the flames, glitters.

Still in his dreamlike state, Ander looks up at the moon. _Please_ , he prays, begs. Please, _please let him be my soulmate._ He’s told himself a thousand times that it’s unlikely, even impossible, but Ander wants so badly for this man to be his soulmate. He has been drawn to Omar since their first meeting, and sometime between then and now, he thinks he’s lost part of his heart. Ander doesn’t know what he’d do if Omar is _not_ his soulmate.

The idea of Omar being just a person, a regular friend, makes Ander’s stomach churn.

Omar turns toward Ander fully and startles as his eyes stop on Ander. A moment and he is smiling, and then, a relieved laugh.

“Hi.” He sounds pleased.

Ander watches the smile and does not think about how the side of Omar’s face which is lit by moonlight is the most beautiful thing he’s seen. He drops his gaze quickly from Omar’s lips to his left wrist. It had been a golden bracelet that had glittered in candlelight. He wonders what it is.

“Am I imagining you?” Omar asks. His voice, honey-like and soft, catches Ander off guard.

Ander shakes his head.

“I didn’t hear you walking. Don’t just stand there looking like a ghost, come.”

Ander goes, his body obeying Omar’s request. It’s as if Omar has put a spell on him and Ander is compelled to do whatever makes him happy.

He only notices that the ground is wet when his bare feet touch the mosaic. Water runs everywhere, spurting out in small little fountains and making its way to the pool in which Omar is sitting. When Ander is close enough, he kneels down.

“That can’t be comfortable,” Omar says looking up at him. “But if you sit down, your clothes will get wet.”

Ander shrugs. He thinks he will actually combust if he takes off his clothes in front of Omar, but Omar is right, kneeling down will be hell on his legs.

Making a decision, Ander steps into the pool fully clothed, thoroughly soaking his nightclothes.

It’s worth it though, because Omar starts laughing.

“You lunatic!” But he sounds fond. “Do you often haunt the halls at night?”

Ander shakes his head. “I had a nightmare.”

“Oh. Are you alright?”

“More or less. It was a nightmare, it’s not real.”

“True,” he pauses. “I haven’t had a nightmare in a long time. What was yours about?”

Ander hesitates. Omar had been very upset by the acolytes last night, and Ander doesn’t want to ruin his good mood by bringing them up. He looks at a candle burning happily by his side. Its tiny flame, giving him a bit of courage, makes Ander smile.

“ _The candle must be taken from this house and slaughtered.”_

Ander turns to Omar, confused.

Omar’s eyes are teasingly warm as he changes from Basque to a language Ander doesn’t know. “ _Ta be hamsaye nagooyad ke to dar khaneye maee.”_

“What?”

“Relevant poetry.” Omar shakes his head, looking away from Ander and running his fingers through the candle’s flame. Ander watches, captivated by the movement of the flame against Omar’s skin. When Omar looks back, some of the teasing has disappeared from his gaze. “Your dream, Ander.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was stupid.”

He glances at Omar just in time to see him shake his head.

“Of course it matters. It made you unhappy.”

Ander’s heart thuds pointedly in his chest.

“Tell me. Talking about it will make you feel better.”

Ander, who is still praying that Omar is miraculously his soulmate, doesn’t want to bring up his own soulmark. However, when he looks at Omar’s sincere face, he realizes that he can’t lie either.

He settles on a half truth. “I had lost something very important to me,” Ander says. “Something I’ve had forever and it was suddenly gone, without an explanation.”

Omar bumps his bare shoulder against Ander’s sympathetically. “Horrible.”

“It’s fine though,” Ander says. “I looked for it when I woke up and I still have it.”

“You brought it here?” Omar asks, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s a long way to bring something important to you.”

Ander shrugs. “I could not leave it behind.” And really, he couldn’t, and if he’d been honest with Omar it would have made a lot more sense, but he cannot be honest with Omar about this, not now, when he would do _anything_ for Omar to be his soulmate.

“What if you lose it, though?”

Ander smiles. “There’s no way.”

“Are you sure?” Omar pauses. “I don’t carry valuable things with me anymore.”

“Why?”

“My mom told me about a pickpocket who stole her grandfather’s ring.” And Omar launches into a story that had happened before he was even born.

As he talks he gets more heated, raising his hands as if to pantomime his mother’s experience. Ander tries to listen but his gaze keeps going back to Omar’s wrist and the gold glittering in the candlelight. He’s not sure why he didn’t notice the bracelet before, but now that he knows it’s there, he wants to ask Omar about it.

Ander doesn’t think that a gold bracelet on Omar’s left wrist is a coincidence. That is the place where a soulmate’s name would be, so anyone wearing something there must be aware of the message they’re sending.

Ander wants to ask whether Omar has a soulmate, whether there’s a name written under that bracelet that Omar wants to hide. Ander himself hides the name of his soulmate under a leather bracelet, and for a moment, he is almost certain that the reason Omar is wearing that bracelet on his wrist is identical to his own.

Ander looks at Omar, his mouth opening to ask him the question.

Omar stops talking mid sentence. “What is it?”

The question is on the tip of his tongue. It’s almost out before Ander thinks better of it. If Omar’s situation were similar to Ander’s, they wouldn’t be sitting here, unaware of each other's importance. If Omar were like Ander, he would have traced the name of his soulmate with his finger until he could write the name down with his eyes closed. And Omar _knows_ Latin, Omar would have been able to read Ander’s name. Omar would have recognized him.

“Ander?” Omar is asking softly.

Ander shakes his head. “Nothing. Continue.”

Omar doesn’t look convinced but he picks up his story.

It’s late, probably closer to dawn than midnight, and Ander’s mind begins wandering. Omar’s voice is soft, and becomes a melody he talks. Ander hums as if to respond several times, which makes Omar laugh. At some point, without realizing, Ander’s head drops on Omar’s shoulder. He thinks Omar might push him off, but he doesn’t. Ander, half asleep, looks at Omar’s bracelet through his lashes.

“ _Koshtane sham che hajat bovad az beem e raghiban._ ” Omar is murmuring, more to himself than to Ander.

Ander closes his eyes.

“ _Partove rooye to gooyad, ke to dar khaneye maee.”_

Ander is no longer sure whether or not he’s dreaming. Omar’s voice, faint in a foreign language, surreal in the early morning hours, emboldens him to grab Omar’s wrist and bring attention to the golden band.

“I never noticed that before,” he says, running a finger against the bracelet.

“The bracelet?” Ander can feel Omar’s head turning, but Omar doesn’t jostle him enough to have him pull away.

“Yeah,” Ander says. “It’s nice.” He drops Omar’s wrist back in the water.

“Yeah,” Omar responds, his voice hollow. There’s something there that he’s not saying, something that Ander would have caught immediately if he hadn’t been mostly asleep.

“Your shoulder is comfortable,” he says after a moment, his heavy eyelids demanding to be closed. “I’m going to fall asleep like this.”

“That’s alright,” Omar murmurs into his hair. “I’ll take you back to your room.”

Ander feels a light kiss on his hair and he groans. It’s not that he didn’t like the kiss, it’s that…

“No,” he says slowly.

Omar stops immediately. “You didn’t like that?”

Shaking his head, Anser says. “The name.”

“The name?” Omar sounds confused.

“I want to be kissed by my soulmate,” Ander says. “Even if it’s on the head, it has to be him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. The person I’m supposed to fall in love with.” Omar doesn’t respond to this, and after a moment of silence, Ander leans even more into Omar’s shoulder. Listening to the water as it gurgles and flows in the small channels, he falls asleep.

Ander is not sure how long he spends in the pool, sleeping on Omar’s shoulder, but when Omar gently shakes him awake, Ander can feel the warmth of the water in his bones.

“Time to get to bed,” Omar is saying.

He helps Ander stand up, physically supports his weight as they walk back to Ander’s room. Ander’s brain is too fuzzy from sleep to notice whether Omar had dressed after getting out of the pool, but he does notice that he is dripping water on the ground while Omar leaves no trail.

“Are you gonna be ok taking off those wet clothes?” Omar asks once they get to Ander’s room.

“Mhhm.” Ander’s eyes are too heavy, and he keeps needing to close them.

Omar is snapping his fingers in front of Ander’s face. Ander opens his eyes.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to get sick because you were too sleepy to change out of your clothes.”

“I’m fine,” Ander says, but he doesn’t think he’s very convincing because Omar doesn’t move away.

“Are you ok if I come in and help you?”

Ander is more than ok with that… or… he wants to be. He is. _He is._ He wants nothing more than to have Omar peel off his clothes, but even though he’s very sleepy and his brain is at its lowest functioning level, Ander knows that letting Omar undress him is not a good idea.

“I’m fine with it.” He forces his eyes open so he can be more reassuring to Omar. “But I can do it, I promise. I’m basically completely awake.”

“Sure?” Omar asks one last time.

Ander nods.

He does manage to take off his clothes before collapsing on his bed.

\--

Ander sleeps through breakfast and lunch on the next day.

By the time he emerges from his room, the sun is starting to set and Guzman looks genuinely shocked to see him walking around.

“Abu-Yusef’s grandson said you went to sleep at dawn,” he says as a way of explanation for his surprise. “I thought you’d just stay in your room today.”

“I’m hungry.”

Dinner is a quick affair. After, Omar pulls Ander along to a part of the house he’s never seen.

Ander doesn’t protest. Omar’s company is enough, Ander doesn’t care what they’re doing.

When they enter a large library however, Ander hesitates.

“Omar,” he says, his eyes glazing at the sight of the numerous codices. Ander has never seen so many books together in one place. When he’d gotten his education, the monks had taught him how to read with a copy of the Bible.

“Yes?”

“Omar, I don’t… read,” Ander says finally, a bit upset that Omar hasn’t picked up on that aspect of his personality.

Omar laughs. “I know,” he answers. “I just wanted to show you something specific.”

He leads Ander toward a desk, lighting a candle and motioning for Ander to sit down. He takes a large tome out of a shelf and opens it on the desk.

Ander peers at it. Even if the book had been written in Latin, Ander would have had a hard time reading it. Unfortunately for him, it’s written in Arabic and he recognizes absolutely none of the text.

Omar turns the page over to an illustration of a dragon.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” Omar says, his pointer finger lightly touching the illustration. “Have you seen one before?”

“No,” Ander responds, his breath catching at the idea that Omar might have seen one.

“Makes sense, the Romans wiped out the native dragon population in North Africa and Europe by hunting them for their arena fights,” Omar says thoughtfully. “But I’d still think you might have seen one?”

Ander shakes his head.

“The original Arab and Berber settlers brought some over to al-Andalus from Persia when they saw that the peninsula didn’t have any native breeds.”

“Persia?” Ander asks. “Where the roses came from?”

Omar nods. “The Arabs learned many things from the Persians. They conquered them but then, when they looked around, they decided that the Persians got a lot of things right. Anyways they brought the dragons here and set them loose and without anyone hunting them, the dragons became a bit of a pest in the caliphate. They reproduced a bit too… freely,” Omar continues, then stops. He seems to rethink what he’s going to say next and instead asks Ander, “Do you like dragons?”

Ander nods. “What self-respecting person doesn’t?”

His response seems to reassure Omar, who smiles. “Do you want to see some maybe?” He sounds hesitant but hopeful, and his tone confuses Ander.

“Are there dragons in Córdoba?”

“No,” Omar says. “They wouldn’t allow dragons this close to the city. But there are some in the south, if you’re interested.”

“What are you saying?”

Omar sighs, running his hand through his hair and looking away from Ander. When he speaks, his gaze is fixed at a point behind Ander’s head. “I have to go check on my mom and sister,” he says, which has nothing to do with dragons. “My dad left al-Yazirat a week ago to do some business for my grandpa, and he’s written to me demanding that I check on them. I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me.”

Surprised, Ander remains quiet.

“I mean, you’re not doing anything here with your friend. He’s spending all his time with my grandfather and you’re just hanging out. I figured a change of scenery might be nice.”

“You want me to go to al-Yazirat with you?” Ander asks, incredulous.

“Yeah. If you want.” Omar shifts his gaze to catch Ander’s. “There are dragons around, you might see one.”

Ander isn't sure if he should tell Omar that he absolutely doesn't care as much about seeing a dragon as he does about hanging with Omar, so he just nods slowly. “Are they a common sighting?”

“Common enough,” Omar answers. “You might be able to see one once every few weeks.”

Ander wants to say yes. He can’t think of one good reason why he wouldn’t go with Omar, but he’s a bit hesitant to say yes too fast. “And what would I do for the rest of my time?”

“Explore the south, swim in the Mediterranean, not be cooped up in this house for almost a month, hang out with me…” Omar trails off. “So?”

Ander looks down at the dragon, pretending like he’s deliberating, when his decision was made the moment Omar had asked him. Even if there had been no dragon or Mediterranean, Ander would have gone, just to spend more time with Omar.

“Yeah, ok,” he says. “I’ll have to tell Guzman.”

“Fantastic.”

Omar knocks his shoulder against Ander’s and smiles. Ander smiles back, remembering the gentle way Omar had treated him last night, the feel of Omar’s lips against his hair.

Ander won’t close his eyes and pray now, he doesn’t look down to where Omar’s bracelet is covering his wrist. Instead he fixes his gaze back on the painting of the dragon. “So you’ve seen one, then?”

“Yes, though from far away,” Omar says. “We can’t hunt them or keep them as pets, it’s against the law for everyone but the Caliph and his family. And they’re not friendly if they’ve been raised in the wild.”

“Huh. I’ve only been told that dragons are deadly and eat virgins.” Ander looks up at Omar, his eyes sparkling and his mouth tilted up in a smile.

Omar laughs, closing the codex and placing it back on the bookshelf. “They really don’t care about the sexual experience of their victims.”

“That’s good,” Ander says. “Wouldn’t want to have my guide eaten by a dragon because of his sexual experience.”

The teasing makes Omar laugh even harder, and he reaches forward with one hand, pushing at Ander’s head. “More like _I wouldn’t want_ my guest eaten by a dragon because of his sexual experience.”

Ander flips him off, which makes Omar double over with laughter. Ander’s heart beats rapidly in his chest at the sight.

Later that night, Ander makes his way to Guzman’s room to tell him about the plans to go south. Guzman doesn’t seem particularly keen on the idea.

“You’ve known this guy, how long?”

Ander tries hard not to roll his eyes. “He is literally the grandson of the man you’re establishing an alliance with. I think we can trust him.”

“And you want to go because…?”

Ander bites his lip. He doesn’t want to tell Guzman about his nightly prayers that Omar is somehow his soulmate, but he has to give Guzman something. “Because I like spending time with him?”

“You like spending time with a stranger.”

“We’ve been here for long enough that he’s not a stranger anymore.”

“And you like him.”

“I like him,” Ander reiterates.

Guzman’s next comment knocks the wind out of Ander. “Is he your soulmate?”

Ander shakes his head. “I don’t know, probably not.”

“Have you shown him the name on your wrist?”

Ander shakes his head.

“Goddamn it, Ander.”

Holding up a hand, Ander silences Guzman. “Guzman, stop. I’m not going to show people my soulmark. It’s not gonna happen. _Let it go.”_

“Ok, let me get this straight,” Guzman says. “You’re going to abandon me in a foreign city, to go on a trip with a guy you’ve just met, who is _not_ your soulmate, and who doesn’t know the name of your soulmate. You’re going to abandon Córdoba, the biggest city in all of Europe, the place where your soulmate is most likely to be, and go to some port-town in the south. Explain to me exactly how this is good for you?”

“A change of scenery. And if Omar leaves, there's no way I can make my way around the city. I don’t speak Arabic. You’re constantly busy and he’s the only person who shows me around.”

“Are you sure?”

Ander nods. “I actually really want to go. Omar said I might be able to see some dragons.”

Guzman sighs. “How long will you be gone?”

\--

**Section III: _Southern tip of Iberia_**

\--

They haven’t travelled too far from Córdoba when Ander spots a mass in the horizon. When he focuses on it, he thinks it might be a dragon.

Omar doesn’t seem convinced. “It’s too far away and too close to Córdoba,” he says, peering at the shape. “Don’t worry,” he turns to Ander with an indulgent smile. “We’ll see one eventually.”

Ander still thinks it’s a dragon, but he drops the subject.

The first night, they stop at an inn which has two free rooms. The next day, as they travel further south, there are less people on the road. The inn they find on the second night has only one room.

“Two beds,” the innkeeper tells them. “But the room has to be shared.”

There’s already a fire in the hearth when Ander and Omar get up to the room. Ander, who has spent the whole day on a horse, drops onto the bed. He watches, his eyes barely open, as Omar slowly gets ready for bed.

“You need me to take off your boots?” Omar asks him.

Ander raises himself on his elbows, looks at his boots, and sighs.

“Is that a yes?” Omar is smiling at him like teasing Ander is the most fun thing he could be doing right now, instead of you know, sleeping.

“No. I’ll do it.”

He sits up and slowly, as slowly as he can, takes off his boots. He throws them at the door once they’re off, to punish them for being on his feet in the first place.

“They offend you or something?” Omar, now in his nightclothes, is taking a few blankets from his own bed and arranging them near the fireplace.

“I had to sit up to take them off.”

“Ah,” Omar smiles. “Truly a terrible crime committed by your boots.”

Ander smiles at his gentle ribbing. “What are you doing?” He watches as Omar takes the pillow from his bed and places it at the head of the blankets by the fire.

“I want to read a bit before bed,” Omar answers. “The light of the fire should be enough for it, you can extinguish the candle.”

Ander does so before settling underneath the blanket. When he looks back at Omar, Omar is engrossed in his small codex.

“What are you reading?”

Omar glances up. “A book of short Latin poetry,” he answers. “Do you want to take a look?”

Ander shakes his head. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

Omar nods and drops his head to read once more.

Ander watches him read until his own eyes are too heavy to stay open.

He dreams of the sea again, and again, when he looks at his wrist, the name of his soulmate is gone.

Ander wakes up screaming.

The first thing he wants to do is check his wrist, but before he has a chance to, Omar is rushing toward him, asking what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” Ander shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Nothing, I had a nightmare again.”

Omar sits down on Ander’s bed, his hands on Ander’s shoulders. His gaze is full of concern. “A new nightmare?”

“No. The same nightmare as before.” Ander looks at the fireplace, where Omar had been sitting. The codex is no longer there and the fire itself has settled. “Did I wake you?”

Omar shakes his head. “I was just about to lay down. The same nightmare as before? What the fuck was it that it’s bothering you so much?”

Ander looks into Omar’s eyes, at his earnest gaze and sympathetic expression. “When the acolyte touched my wrist last week,” Ander begins. He has yet to decide how much of the dream he’s going to recount to Omar. “I saw this vision. I was by the sea and someone was calling my name, that’s where the vision ended but the dream keeps going.”

“Go on.” Omar looks thoughtful. His brows are drawn together in concentration.

“I turn around and there’s no one there and then I--” Ander pauses, he can’t get the words _I look down and my soulmate’s name is gone_ out of his mouth. He struggles, trying to just say it. But no matter how he reasons with himself, he can’t risk telling Omar that he has a soulmate and then have it not be Omar.

Omar, noticing the clear struggle on Ander’s face takes his hand with his own and leads Ander to the fireplace.

“I know we haven’t been friends for very long,” Omar says. “But I don’t like seeing you like this,” he sighs. “Look, Ander. The acolytes? They’re full of shit, I know me telling you that is not very helpful but their abilities are meaningless. Don’t let them bother you this much.”

Ander blinks. “How do you know their abilities are meaningless?”

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, Omar takes a deep breath. “Because they showed me a vision too.”

Stunned, Ander watches.

“When I was younger, one night I was walking around Córdoba with my father and we got separated. Very similar to what happened to you, I heard music and followed it to the acolytes. They took my hand and showed me a vision. Actually, the vision was similar to yours too.” Omar laughs. “No one was calling my name though. Anyways my father found me and began arguing with the head acolyte. My father told him that he had no right to show me visions without his consent. But the man yelled back that I had the right to see the moment I will truly know my soulmate.”

Ander looks at Omar sharply. “Your--”

Omar cuts him off. “Which is how I knew they were full of shit.” Omar raises his left hand to show Ander his golden bracelet, as if that is an explanation.

“Do you have a soulmate?” Ander asks hesitantly, confused by the bracelet and why Omar is drawing attention to it.

“If I had one, do you think I’d be wearing this bracelet?” Omar’s voice has a sardonic edge to it.

“I don’t… that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Oh,” Omar says after a moment, bringing a palm to his forehead. “I’m an idiot, you’re a foreigner. What do you know about al-Andalusian soulmate traditions?”

Ander tries to remember his conversation with Samuel. “That there’s a rule here that says you can’t separate soulmates no matter what. Samuel said someone enacted a while ago, to stop families from separating their children from their soulmates for political gain.”

Omar is nodding slowly. “Did he tell you about the bracelets at all?”

Ander shakes his head.

“Well once the law was passed and the people of al-Andalus realized they couldn’t exploit their children anymore, they came up with a new tradition. They would leave people with a soulmark alone. Their wrists would be bare. Anyone else would wear a bracelet where their soulmark would be.”

Possibly Ander’s parents all the way in the Pyrenees can hear his heart shatter. “So--” Ander opens and closes his mouth. His throat hurts, forbidding his voice to come up. “So--” he says again. His eyes are burning and Ander closes them, willing himself not to cry. “You don’t--”

Omar is nodding solemnly. “I don’t have a soulmate.”

Ander swallows.

Omar closes his eyes, sighing. “Which is how I can tell you that the acolytes are full of shit. They showed me a vision, but I don’t have a soulmate.” Omar is sounding exhausted. “I mean, to be fair. Does anyone? Have you ever seen a soulmark?”

Ander says nothing, his eyes wide, his heart beating in his throat.

“There’s always talk of soulmates but they are _very rare_ , people say. Having a soulmate is a privilege. Ok. I’d believe that people weren’t telling tall tales if I had ever once seen a soulmark in my life.”

“I--” Ander’s voice dies in his throat. The pain in his chest is unbearable. He’d always thought that Omar being his soulmate was unlikely but he’d never felt this way about anyone else. Yes, Omar had said nothing about having a soulmate, but Ander had still hoped. This, Omar’s attitude toward soulmates, his blatant disregard, his questioning if soulmarks even exist extinguishes the little hope that Ander has harbored. Ander has nothing to say to him.

“It’s fine, Ander,” Omar is saying, voice soft again as he notices the state that Ander is in. “It’s fine that the acolytes are full of shit. I just told you because I wanted you to know they’re shady con artists.”

Unable to look at Omar, Ander nods, standing. He turns quickly as he feels his breathing become shallow and his eyes burn again with tears. As he forces himself back to his bed, he says, as normally as he can. “Thanks for telling me, I think I’m going to sleep now.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Omar will say anything to him. Instead, he gets under the blankets and buries his face in his pillows.

If he cries, just for a bit, no one has to know.

\--

As they ride south the next day, Ander ruminates on last night’s conversation. Originally, he’d been upset that Omar wasn’t his soulmate. Now, he thinks his heart hurts because Omar doesn’t even believe in soulmates.

He’s unresponsive to every attempt Omar makes at conversation and by midday, Omar gives up and they ride in silence. The combination of the hot sun, the silence and the heartbreak he can’t stop focusing on have made Ander so irritable, that when Omar says his name, Ander swears.

“Calm down,” Omar says to him hesitantly. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but changes his mind, instead he stops his horse. “Look.”

Ander follows the line of Omar’s finger to an aqueduct and when his eyes land on what Omar has to show him, he gasps.

“Is it?” His voice is hesitant.

“It’s a dragon.”

Ander looks at Omar, who is watching Ander’s face, his expression expectant.

He lowers his voice. “Can it see us from there?”

“It could if it were awake,” Omar responds. “But it’s sleeping.”

Ander peers closer at the dragon, stretching his neck to see better. The dragon is motionless on the aqueduct, its scales glittering in the light of the afternoon. Ander wants to urge his horse forward, to see the dragon up close, but he knows better than to approach a sleeping dragon.

“How long do they sleep?”

Omar shrugs. “Depends on the dragon. I’ve never seen one so close.” He grins at Ander. “You’re lucky.”

The high of seeing the dragon leaves Ander in good spirits for the remainder of the day. But at night, when he goes to sleep, he is reminded of the night before, of the fact that Omar has no soulmate, that Omar barely believes soulmates exist.

The next day, Ander doesn’t talk.

Omar is clearly concerned at this point and tries even harder than yesterday to engage Ander in conversation. But Ander doesn’t have the energy to even pretend to be happy. During the course of the day, as Omar’s attempts get weaker and weaker, Ander comes to the realization that he’s screwed.

He’s in love with Omar.

Omar is not his soulmate, because Omar doesn’t have a soulmate.

Having grown up with tales of soulmates, men and women whose love was so strong they’d perish without one another, Ander had always assumed that someone with a soulmark could not fall in love with anyone except their soulmate. Apparently the tales were just that, tales.

If he had not spent his entire life imagining his own soulmate, who the man was, what he looked like, what his laugh might sound like, Ander would not have taken this realization so hard. But Ander has spent his entire life waiting for his soulmate. He’d never even felt slightly attracted to someone before meeting Omar, because he’d been certain that the people he came across in Navarre were not his soulmate.

He had been stupid to fall for Omar. What the fuck could he do now? If he meets his soulmate, will he even feel anything for him? Will he love him the way he’s come to love Omar? Will he get along with him, laugh with him, tease him, the way he does Omar?”

Ander curses himself. He should have never even entertained the idea that Omar would be his soulmate. He could have saved himself so much heartache if only he’d approached this relationship logically.

Fuck, Guzman will be so smug about this.

Ander spends the rest of the journey to al-Yazirat engulfed in a cloud of gloom. By the third day, Omar has realized that there is nothing he can do to cheer Ander up and has completely given up talking to him.

Their journey is silent, endless and unbearable.

They don’t even see another dragon.

Their arrival at Omar’s family’s villa is a sullen affair. Omar asks a servant to show Ander to a guest room, and before Ander leaves, he looks like he’s about to say something. But Ander, unable and unwilling to hear him speak, turns his back and follows the servant inside.

He spends the next day in his room. There’s a knock on his door halfway through the day and when he opens it, there’s a food tray sitting outside.

Ander only eats because he’s starving.

At night, before he’s about to go to bed, he hears anotherknock on his door. When he opens it this time, it’s Omar, looking entirely too nervous.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I come in?”

Ander nods. His heart might be broken but he can’t say no to Omar.

They sit opposite each other, silent.

“Are you mad at me?” Omar asks finally. “Did I do something?”

Ander shakes his head. “No.” His voice breaks as it comes out.

“Then why are you being so weird?” Omar asks. “Why did you barely talk to me on the journey? Why have you locked yourself in your room all day?”

Ander swallows, closing his eyes. “It’s not your fault. I’ve just been feeling,” he stops, he doesn’t want to say heartbroken.

“You’ve been feeling what?”

“I guess, not right,” Ander answers after a pause. “I haven’t been feeling like myself.” He looks up at Omar through his lashes, willing Omar to believe him.

“Well what happened?” Omar prods. “Why are you not feeling like yourself?”

Ander shrugs.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Omar asks. “Anything you need?”

 _For you to be my soulmate_ , Ander thinks. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m an awful companion.”

Omar places his palm on Ander’s cheek. Ander’s skin burns where Omar is touching him. “You’re not an awful companion,” Omar says kindly.

An absolute lie. Ander knows how horrible he’s been lately. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” Omar is saying. “You haven’t been yourself but that’s ok. Friends don’t abandon each other because one of them has some bad days.”

The word friends, even though it’s meant to be reassuring, pierces Ander’s heart like an arrow. _Friends_ , that’s what they are. That is what they will be, that is what they’ve always been destined to be.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re right.”

Omar looks away from Ander, when he looks back, he’s smiling. “Let’s do something to get you feeling normal again.” His voice is inauthentically cheerful. “Let’s go on a day trip.”

“A day trip?”

Omar nods. “There’s a Roman theater north of here by the sea. If we wake up before dawn, we can get there in just a few hours. It’s deserted, the locals don’t go there. It could be relaxing.”

Ander feels too exhausted to go on any kind of trip right now. But he’s been a horrible guest for days, there’s no way he can deny this invitation.

“Yeah, ok.”

Omar smiles, delight clear on his face.

“Tomorrow?”

Omar nods. “I’ll wake you up.”

\--

They set out before dawn.

Omar encourages his horse to run in the empty road and Ander follows suit, feeling the wind hitting his cheeks and ruffling his hair. A few paces ahead, Omar is yelling into the sky, and Ander, watching his happiness feels the weight on his heart getting a bit lighter.

They stop to watch the sunrise and Ander feels sad all over again.

But he doesn’t have a chance to dwell on his sadness. As soon as the sun has peeked over the horizon, Omar begins to race down the road again.

They arrive at the theater unexpectedly. One moment, their horses are galloping on the road and the next Omar is stopping. He leads his horse onto a small path and Ander follows.

The theater is cut into the hillside.

“I know I said Roman theater,” Omar says as they walk toward the structure. “It’s actually Greek since it’s built into the hillside. But I think the Romans built it.”

Ander, who doesn’t know the difference between Greek and Roman theaters, nods silently.

Walking down to beach level is somewhat of a challenge. Whatever steps had been built centuries ago are now crumbling. The seats, though much better preserved, are too far apart to work as steps. Ander watches Omar hop from seat to seat, descending into what he excitedly tells Ander is the orchestra.

“Where the chorus would be.” He looks back at Ander and his excitement is contagious. Ander, despite his gloom, feels himself smiling.

He begins following Omar’s lead, hopping from seat to seat, descending toward the ground.

Behind the theatre, the sea murmurs softly.

Once they get to the bottom, Omar begins wandering. Ander listens as Omar explains what would have been there once.

“Around here is where the altar would have been,” Omar tells him. “In the back by those columns, is the stage, the _skene._ That’s Greek for stage.”

“You know Greek?”

Omar shrugs, sheepish.

“How do you know so much?”

“I read.” Omar smiles.

There is still some stone left where the stage would have been, and Omar hops onto it. He looks down at Ander, smiling broadly.

“And now a performance,” he announces.

Ander shakes his head at him, walking around the ruins of the stage and the tall columns surrounding it, so that he can look at the sea.

Behind him, he can hear Omar reciting something in Latin.

“ _Tandem venit amor, qualem texisse pudori,”_

Ander closes his eyes, feeling the sun gentle against his skin and hearing Omar’s calming voice.

 _“Quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis,”_ Omar goes on.

Ander doesn’t open his eyes, content just to hear Omar’s voice. If he had been thinking more clearly, he’d have realized by now how similar this experience is to his dreams. But Ander, too focused on the sun, the sea breeze and Omar’s voice, finds nothing to worry about.

“ _Exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis_

_adtulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum.”_

Ander opens his eyes briefly, but opening them makes it harder to focus on Omar. He closes them again as he takes a step toward the sea.

“ _Exsolvit promissa Venus.”_

Omar suddenly stops his recitation, and disoriented, Ander opens his eyes.

He hears the sound of someone landing heavily on the ground, then. “Ander? Where did you disappear?”

Ander frowns, the situation feels familiar.

“Ander?” It’s only when he hears his name repeated that Ander connects the dots.

“Shit,” he swears and in his haste to see his wrist, he rips the leather wristband apart.

As the ruined bracelet falls to the ground, Ander inspects his left wrist. In the dream, his skin had been bare. But as he tries to get his heartbeat under control, Ander sees that his soulmate’s name hasn’t disappeared.

“Ander?”

Ander turns, clutching his left wrist and hugging it to his chest.

In his dream, every time he’d turned he’d found no one. But here is Omar, standing only a few paces away from Ander, looking at him with concern.

It’s Omar he’s been dreaming about. Omar who’s been calling his name. Omar whom the acolyte had tried to show him. But Omar doesn’t have a soulmate.

_“The acolytes are supposed to show you the moment you know your soulmate.”_

The words echo in Ander’s head. His soulmate.

Could it be possible that Omar is his soulmate? Omar who claims not to have a soulmark?

“What are you doing?” Omar asks, gaze fixed on Ander’s wrist.

Ander swallows, then drops his hand, wrist up so that Omar can see the writing on it, even if he’s too far away to read it.

“What is that?”

“A name,” Ander says, voice barely there. He tries again. “My soulmate’s name.”

Omar’s face falls. “You have a soulmate?” His voice is fragile.

Ander nods, taking a step toward him. “Yeah, it’s been here since I was born, but I can’t read it,” he takes another step toward Omar. “It’s in Arabic.”

For the first time in years, Ander voluntarily stretches his wrist toward someone, showing them his soulmark.

Omar takes Ander’s wrist and as he reads over what is written there, he sinks down onto a broken pillar. His mouth moves with the script, eyes dragging over the words on Ander’s wrist. Then he reads it again, his eyes and mouth moving quickly. Then again, and again.

When he finally looks back at Ander, his eyes are wild, unbelieving.

“Does it,” Ander tries to find his voice, but it breaks. “Does it say your name?” His words come out pleading. “Please say it does.”

Omar nods slowly. “It’s impossible,” he’s saying, more to himself than to Ander.

Ander is barely aware of Omar’s words. A torrent of emotion is overtaking him, threatening to drown him in what he thinks must be happiness. His ears are ringing and he almost falls to his knees.

“It says your name?” Ander asks Omar again. “That’s what it says? _Your name_?”

Omar looks at him, seemingly remembering that Ander is there. “Yes,” he breathes, the most beautiful words Ander has ever heard. “But I don’t have a soulmate.”

“How do you know?” Ander gives into the waves of emotion and drops to his knees so he can be level with Omar. “Have you seen your blank wrist?”

Omar shakes his head slowly. “The acolyte said I would meet my soulmate. But my dad told me there was nothing written on my wrist. He said if there had been, I wouldn’t have to wear the bracelet. He wouldn’t lie, would he? It’s against the law.”

Ander, unable to reassure him, stays silent.

“Would he lie to me? My own father? And my mother? Would they lie to me about this?” Omar’s voice is taking a frantic edge.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Staring at Ander for a moment longer, Omar nods, understanding. His gaze drops on the ground, searching it frantically. After a moment, it stops on a large rock. Omar bends down to pick it up and in one quick motion, strikes the clasp of his golden bracelet with it.

The clasp breaks and the bracelet falls gracefully to the ground.

But Ander doesn’t notice the bracelet falling, and neither does Omar. Both their gazes are fixed on Omar’s left wrist, where Ander’s name is written in neat, dark Latin script.

Omar’s next breath comes out as a sob. “The acolyte,” he’s saying, mumbling really. “He told me that there was a name on my wrist, but I didn’t believe him. My parents assured me the man had been lying. They were so convincing and I thought there was no way they’d lie to me about this. Soulmates are so fucking rare...” He trails off, then looks up at Ander, his eyes shining. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you had a name on your wrist?”

Ander, heart overflowing with joy, leans in and kisses him instead of answering.

It takes only a second for Omar to respond, grabbing Ander’s head with his two hands and pulling Ander closer. Ander can feel Omar’s heartbeat reflected in his own, and as they kiss, he tries to send a thank you prayer to whoever is listening, but his mind can’t form words.

When they separate, Ander, sitting on the ground, takes Omar’s left hand and holds it with his own.

He has nothing to say, there’s fire in his veins, but he can’t conjure any words. All he can do is hold Omar’s hand and look at his own name written on Omar’s skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Omar asks again, after a millenia.

Ander looks up. “I can’t read Arabic,” he says, sighing,“ When I was younger, people would tell me the most horrible things about my soulmark. One time, a man told me the name was the devil’s own name. I cried for days before a monk proved to me otherwise. I couldn’t handle the constant abuse, so I covered it up and decided the next person who would see it would be my soulmate.”

“Ander,” Omar says, his voice exasperated. “You can’t _read Arabic.”_

Ander shrugs. He wants to pull Omar down to the floor, so that he can rest his head on Omar’s shoulder. Instead of doing that though, he tries to explain. “I thought if I met my soulmate, I would just know. And then I met you and I wanted it to be you so bad. But I didn’t want to tell you about my soulmark and have you tell me you didn’t have a soulmate,” he closes his eyes. “I was so afraid that it wouldn’t be you, that I couldn’t tell you then. Then you told me what your bracelet meant and it was too late, I was too far gone.”

“Too far gone?” Omar asks gently.

Ander holds his gaze as he says. “I was already in love with you.”

The words have barely left his lips when Omar is coming down from the pillar and kissing him again. Ander wraps his arms around Omar’s neck and opens his mouth, feeling his heart skip a beat when he feels Omar’s tongue against his own. He can feel Omar’s fingers, clutching at his waist, pulling him closer.

They kiss until Ander’s lips hurt, and when they part, they do it reluctantly.

“I was going crazy trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you,” Omar says, resting his forehead against Ander’s. “I didn’t know what I had done wrong.”

“Did you,” Ander says, though he feels like an idiot bringing it up. “Did you have feelings for me?”

Omar laughs, a small, incredulous laugh. Ander feels his breath on his own skin.

“Did I have feelings for you?” he says, mocking. “I’ve had feelings for you since the first time I saw your unwashed ass.”

Ander pulls back, surprised. “The first time?”

Omar nods. “It was like I got hit by a chariot. One moment I was minding my own business and the next, you had bumped into me and I felt like someone had cut all of the strings that kept me grounded. That goddamn mole on your cheek haunted me for days.”

Ander tries to think back to his and Omar’s first meeting, to the short way Omar had spoken to him. Was that Omar feeling embarrassed by his own feelings?

“And then I saw you again and I thought, fuck it, I’m going to go for it. What do I have to lose?” Omar kisses the side of Ander’s mouth lightly.

Ander exhales, closing his eyes and focusing on the feel of Omar’s lips against his skin. He turns his head slightly so he can kiss Omar’s lips again.

“I prayed every night that you were my soulmate.”

Omar laughs. “Loser.”

\--

After the high of knowing they are soulmates wears off, Omar is overtaken by anger.

“I can’t believe they lied to me for so long,” he tells Ander. “They lied even though they knew. They chose to leave me in the dark.” He pauses, closing his eyes and breathing. Ander’s heart hurts for him. “How could they do this to me?”

“I don’t know, but I think, if my parents had thought about it, they would have covered my soulmark too.”

Omar looks at Ander sharply. “Why?”

“We’re enemies, aren’t we?” Ander asks. “I mean, that’s what the king of Navarre claims anyways. How excited do you think your parents were that you had a heathen for a soulmate? Maybe they thought they were saving you pain by hiding it from you.”

Omar nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But they shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“You’re right. But they did, and in the end, it didn't mean anything because you found me.” Ander tries his hardest--and fails--to not smile like a loon. “You found me, I found you. That’s all that matters, right?”

Omar agress but he doesn’t want to return to al-Yazirat.

“Is this because you’re angry?” Ander asks as they walk up the hill, back to their horses. “You don’t want to see your mom because you’re mad?”

Omar shakes his head. “I _am_ angry, don’t get me wrong. But that’s not why I don’t want to go back home,” he says, stopping and turning toward Ander. He grabs Ander’s hands with his own. “But I also don’t really want to return to civilization yet. I’ve just found you, I don’t feel like paying attention to other people.”

“And where exactly would we stay.” Ander looks around. “There doesn’t seem to be civilization nearby.”

Omar smiles. “You have so little faith. My grandpa owns a villa by the sea. No one lives there now, we can go there.” 

The villa is deserted. Omar tells Ander that it hasn’t been inhabited since Omar’s grandmother was alive, but it’s warm and there are ripe grapes on vines. Omar finds the cellar stocked with wine, and maybe the two of them drink a bit too much. Maybe they stumble into bed together, drunk both with the wine and the happiness of having found each other. Maybe they press promises into each other’s skin in the form of kisses as the sun sets and the moon rises.

Ander doesn’t want to sleep.

He lies in bed, holding Omar and sending a thousand thanks to both their gods and the Roman ones, and when Omar seems like he’s about to doze off, Ander shakes him gently.

“Stay with me,” he says into Omar’s shoulder.

“I’m right here.” Omar’s voice is rough with sleep. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to sleep.”

Omar laughs. “Humans need sleep to function, Ander,” Omar says. Ander feels him kiss his hair gently. “I’ll be terrible company tomorrow if I stay up all night.”

“Like an old person,” Ander grumbles.

“Yes,” Omar agrees, his arms wrapping around Ander. He scoots down and kisses Ander on the nose, then the cheek, then forehead. “Like an old person. Now, may I sleep?”

“Maybe.” Ander closes his eyes, willing his brain to calm down, but today has been the most special day in his life, there’s no way Ander can sleep. “I’m going to have to learn Arabic.”

“Hmm?”

Ander opens his eyes. “If I’m going to stay here, I’ll have to learn Arabic.”

Omar opens his eyes as well. “You’ll stay?” he asks, hesitantly.

“Of course, I’m not taking you back to Navarre,” Ander responds. “You’d be miserable there. Hell, I’d be miserable there after having lived in Córdoba for a month. And I’m not leaving you. King Sancho himself wouldn’t be able to get me to leave you.”

“Tomorrow,” Omar says. “We’ll go get registered and then not even god can separate us.”

“Tomorrow?”

Omar nods.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Ander forces himself to close his eyes and get some sleep.

\--

**Epilogue**

_\--_

_In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate,_

_From Omar ibn Yusef to his father, Yusef ibn Yahyah_

_Dad, I’ve found my soulmate. It came as a surprise to me, since I’ve been told all my life that I do not have one. Imagine my amazement when I broke the bracelet on my wrist and saw a name there._

_It taught me that perhaps, you and mom might not have my best interest at heart. Or maybe, you do have my best interest at heart, and you thought that lying to me was the best thing for me._

_I won’t waste ink and paper by telling you how betrayed I feel. I won’t waste time by writing about how I trusted you, my father, and you let me down. I won’t even ask_ why _you did it. I can probably guess. You wanted me to make a suitable marriage, one that would bring the family money and connections. Or maybe, you saw the Latin script on my wrist and panicked, thinking that such a name would only lead to my future unhappiness. You figured telling me there was no name there would be the best thing for me and the family._

_Dad, you thought wrong._

_I am angry at you and mom. More angry than I’ve ever been my entire life. You tried to take my soulmate away from me. My_ soulmate _, which even the law says you cannot. Were I a more vengeful son, or had you been terrible parents, maybe I would think of reporting you to the authorities. But don’t worry, I’m not vengeful, and I don’t want you and mom to be punished._

_I love you despite the fact that you tried to keep me away from my soulmate._

_The thing is dad, you tried, and failed. The thing is, even though I didn’t know I had a soulmate, the moment I saw him, I knew he was special. I thought it strange, how drawn I was to this stranger from Navarre, how often I thought about him, how many days I spent in his presence, making him smile._

_When I saw my own name on his wrist, my mind could not understand. You had told me, many many times, that the acolyte had lied to me, that I should trust you, that I had no soulmate. Only after I read my name on his wrist for the tenth time did it begin to dawn on me that I have been lied to by my own parents._

_I will say it again, you have betrayed me, you have abused my trust, and I am hurt. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully trust you again. But you are my parents, and although you’ve wronged me, I am willing to listen to your side. I’ve written to grandpa, telling him what has happened, and he has assured me that I can stay with him as long as I’d like. However, despite the way you have treated me, I’d like for us to talk._

_Be well and tell mom I say hello. I’ll await your response._

_May you be safe in the hands of God,_

_Omar_

\--

_Ander Muñoz to his mother and father salutem dicit_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I’m writing to you from the port city of al-Yazirat with news that I feel you may have been expecting._

_As we have long suspected--and I think you may have feared--my soulmate has been living in al-Andalus. As you know, my sole reason for coming south was to find him. Now that I have, I think I will stay here._

_I know that this may be hard for you to hear and accept. But the city of Córdoba is a jewel, the likes of which I have never seen before. It would be the highest of cruelty to force my soulmate to move north. What is more, there are many Christians living in the south. They are part of the society of the Moors and live respectable lives, yet, were I to bring my soulmate to Navarre, he’d be treated with hostility and contempt._

_I’m sure you’ll be able to see why it’s a better idea to stay here._

_I’ll tell you a bit about him now. His name is Omar and he is much smarter than I am. He speaks Basque, can read Latin and his grandfather has a huge library in his house. I met Omar thanks to dumb luck, his grandfather is Guzman’s contact in Córdoba._

_We’ve registered our names as soulmates in al-Yazirat. The Moors have a law here that says once a pair has met, they can’t be separated. Omar’s family wasn’t too happy to learn about me, but there’s nothing they can do unless they want to get on the wrong side of the law._

_I wish you guys could meet him. He’s delightful. Funny, witty and patient. I fell in love with him before I even knew that he was my soulmate. Now that I know that he is, however, I have no idea why it took me so long to realize it._

_Again, I will repeat myself. I wish you guys could meet him. I miss you terribly and would welcome a visit. I will always receive both of you with open arms and so would Omar’s family. They’re not happy that their son has a soulmate or that the soulmate is a Christian, but they also consider the matter done. I’ve been hesitantly accepted as part of their family._

_I will end the letter here. Omar and his sister are calling for me to walk into the port with them. Please visit if you can._

_Your loving son,_

_Ander_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I understand the hilarity of the king of Navarre being called Sancho. I get it, but I can't change history.  
> \--
> 
> The poem Omar recites to Ander at night in the pool is unfortunately anachronistic. It's a section from a medieval Farsi poem from the 13th century by the poet Saadi. But I thought it was fitting for the scene and so I included it.  
> /  
> Saadi, Ode 509 lines 10 and 11 (just the translation because I don't expect people to be able to read Farsi) (this poem is so beautiful, I highly recommend reading it):  
> /  
>  _The candle must be taken from this house and slaughtered.  
>  So that it doesn’t tell the neighbor that you are in our house,  
> What is the use of killing the candle for fear of rivals?  
> The glowing light of your face will reveal that you are in our house. _  
> /  
> The poem Omar recites at the theater is a Latin elegy by the poet Sulpicia (he only recites 4.5 lines and that's what I have here). I'm gonna be honest, I don't know if this poem was discovered or known in the 10th century (I doubt it), but I've been anachronistic once, I'm gonna be anachronistic again.  
> /  
> Sulpicia Elegy 1  
> /  
> Tandem venit amor, qualem texisse pudori  
> quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis.  
> Exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis  
> adtulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum.  
> Exsolvit promissa Venus...  
> /  
> At last love has come, the kind of love that covering it  
> May give me more shame than baring it to someone.  
> Cytherea (Venus) pleased by my Camenae (Italian goddesses, similar to Greek Muses)  
> Has brought him into our lap and placed him there.  
> Venus kept her promises...  
> \--  
> This fic was a passion project. Let me know if you enjoyed it, let me know if you have any questions, let me know if you're a medieval Spanish scholar and have found inconsistencies in my history (I read several books and watched a documentary. I did my best). And as always, come yell at me on [tumblr](http://waroftheposes.tumblr.com/) about Elite, a show that will have a fourth season despite everyone's fears.


End file.
